Anthology
by OccasionallyCreative
Summary: A compilation of the various Sherlolly prompt fics that I've written over the last few months. Some fluffy, some smutty, some angsty. This might be added to in the future.
1. Sleeping

Inspired by morbidmegz's challenge on Tumblr to pick a sleeping position and write a small drabble based on that chosen position.

(Picture can be found here: (Tumblr URL: amillionpiecesofclara) post/59237612259/inspired-by-morbidmegzs-challenge -position-of)

My position of choice: C.

* * *

The argument started out trivial—just a bickering match about the washing up. Trivial, domestic stuff.

But these things can so easily escalate, can't they? That's what happens with humans. Perhaps it's something to do with primeval urges—an incessant need for someone to defend themselves against an incoming attack. A fight for survival.

Sherlock stayed curled up on the sofa. He grabbed for his robe, but immediately remembered that it was hanging on the back of his bedroom door. And it was in his bedroom that a very cross Molly was, having shut herself inside when it all got too much.

He wasn't surprised. The things he'd said had been particularly awful, even for him. What he was surprised at was how horrible he felt, knowing that Molly was wrapped in his duvet, upset and hurt. Unlike his arguments with either Mycroft or Lestrade, there was no feeling of pride within him; no sense of triumph.

Oh, this was useless. There was really no feasible point in the both of them staying curled up in separate rooms of the flat because of an argument. Sherlock stood up and slowly moved towards the bedroom door.

"Molly?" he murmured as he tapped on the door. There was no sound. Had she fallen asleep? Probably—definitely if she had been crying. After such a release of stress hormones, it was only right for her body to feel some degree of exhaustion. He opened the door and found that he had been right. She was curled up on the left side of the unmade bed, still dressed in her clothes. She didn't stir as he entered, and nor did she stir as he lay down beside her.

For a few moments, he watched her sleep. He often did that; it helped him mute his thoughts for long enough so he could sleep without interruption. Although he had come here to apologise, he couldn't interrupt her now. It would be better to talk to her in the morning.

But he couldn't fall asleep without letting her know that he was there. With the lightest of touches he reached forward and gently lay his hand against her skin as his fingertips slowly caressed the warm surface.

He couldn't see it, and it would only be in the morning that she told him, but Molly had heard him come in. She had felt his weight slide onto the mattress, and when she felt his fingertips gently stroking over her skin, she smiled sleepily.


	2. Delivery for Miss Molly Hooper

Prompt provided by ladysnarker on Tumblr, in which Molly didn't help Sherlock with The Fall, and is sent a mysterious package soon after.

* * *

Dead, that's what he was. Sherlock Holmes was dead. And Molly, for the first week of his death, was heartbroken. But she didn't show it—how could she? John was grieving, Lestrade was facing a huge amount of difficulties at work… Everyone Sherlock had known had been shattered by his death.

Over the week though, Molly's tears dried up, little by little. She still hurt, but she knew that it wouldn't be good for anyone if she just broke down crying every time a tall, lithe man with dark curls reared up in her mind's eye.

Thankfully, Mike let her have at least Friday off. He'd said that it was because it was the end of the week, and less work was coming in, but Molly knew the real reason. Mike, in his bumbling and friendly way, knew that Molly had loved Sherlock, and he knew that she needed time to mourn.

So Molly's Friday was mostly spent in bed, with Toby curled up beside her, his fur radiating warmth. Molly herself switched between two states: crying or sleeping from the comedown of crying. She knew she shouldn't be so foolish to be lying in bed, weeping over a man who—for much of the time—had barely given her a second glance… but it was that image. That night in the lab kept looming up at her, Sherlock's voice echoing in her mind.

What do you need?

You.

It was what happened after that that she didn't want to think about. She didn't want to think about how urgent his kiss had been, or how quickly he had left her.

The clatter of her letterbox shook her from her reverie. Toby meowed curiously and leapt off the bed, padding at the door with his paws. With some effort, Molly swung her tired body out of the bed and shuffled towards the door. She hadn't even opened it a crack before Toby had squeezed himself through the door and shot off towards her front door. Molly followed, and stopped to find that Toby was sat at the door, scratching at a small, white envelope.

"No, Toby, no," Molly said quickly, as she both scooped Toby up to her chest and picked up the envelope.

It was small to medium, about the size of a birthday card—but there was no writing on it. No name, nothing. Until she turned it over. On the back, there was her name, written in a curled scribble: Miss Hooper.

It was probably her brother. He always did things back to front. Plus, the envelope felt heavy. Yep—definitely her brother. Her birthday had been and gone a couple of weeks before, so no doubt her brother would compensate for missing it by sending her both a present and a card in the same breath.

So without much care, she ripped open the envelope and…

"Oh."

It was not her brother after all. Inside, there were two items: one, a folded up note. The other? A lock of dark, curled hair.

Interesting? Yes. Unexpected? Very.

Sitting down on her sofa, Molly examined the contents more thoroughly; even though there was nothing really concrete enough to examine.

After all, the note only read one thing:

_One man falls, leaving the other to rise. Blood on the pavement; dead men tell no lies._

"One man falls…"

Sherlock's body, falling, falling… No. She wasn't going to think about that.

"Leaves the other to rise…"

The actor… Richard Brook… No—he was Moriarty—Brook didn't exist; he couldn't. Molly knew that.

"Blood on the pavement…"

More flashes; Sherlock's blood-soaked curls, John… Sherlock's corpse, wheeled into the morgue, blood mixing with rain…

"Dead men tell no lies."

It was the last line that stuck her. Over and over, the phrase rolled throughout the vestiges of her mind, never sticking and never staying.

Another image barrelled through her imagination towards her. It wasn't of blood, or of any gore. It was Sherlock, that night in the lab. His eyes… they had been so sincere, so… truthful.

Molly, I think I'm going to die.

Molly was frozen now, stuck in the knowledge that she'd been provided: Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was not dead.


	3. Sherlock, Interrupted

The second prompt from ladysnarker on Tumblr, who requested a fic where Sherlock keeps getting disrupted in his work by Toby, Molly's cat.

* * *

When Sherlock had first been introduced to Toby, the meeting hadn't gone well. Toby had taken one look at Sherlock and clearly decided that Sherlock would become his new cushion. Of course, the world's only consulting detective wasn't too pleased about this. He preferred Molly's company to a cat's, and so he quickly took to brushing Toby away every time he came at least a foot near him.

But Toby was insistent—very insistent in fact. Every time Sherlock visited, he wait until Sherlock was deep in thought and quietly curl up on his stomach, where he'd sleep; right up to the point that Sherlock stirred out of his mind palace. At that point, there would usually be a swear word or two from the detective and a very disgruntled Toby being thrown across the room.

After the tenth occasion of this happening, Sherlock rounded on Molly.

"You could at least train your damn cat!"

"Cats are independent creatures, Sherlock. They can't be trained."

"I know that," Sherlock said irritably, carefully eyeing the approaching Toby.

"It's probably because you're warm. Cats like that."

"Yes, well. I am not your cat's personal radiator."

Molly bit back a laugh. "I know you're not. But is Toby really interfering with your thinking?"

"Yes."

"Okay then. New rule: I visit you at Baker Street instead of you visiting me at my flat. And I don't bring Toby with me."

Sherlock shrugged as he lay back on the sofa and stretched out into his thinking pose. "Good."

* * *

The next day, Molly strolled down to Baker Street at the end of her shift. The first thing she was greeted by however was not Sherlock, but a worried-looking Mrs. Hudson.

"Mrs. Hudson. Everything okay?"

"I'm fine dear, but well… it's Sherlock."

"What's happened?"

"I agreed to look after my sister's cats while she went to hospital you see—she's got a bad hip, poor dear—and…"

Mrs. Hudson didn't even need to finish the sentence. Molly jogged up the steps to Sherlock's flat and opened the door. This time, she couldn't help but laugh.

For the great consulting detective was currently lying back on the sofa, with a very, very disgruntled look on his face. One cat was curled up on the top of the sofa, another was sleeping deeply on Sherlock's stomach and the last had made themselves very comfortable on the top of Sherlock's head.

"Molly, this isn't a laughing matter."

"Sherlock…"

Smiling, she shrugged and stepped forward and gently removed each cat from Sherlock's person, before gently kissing him.

"Now, is there anything else I can do?"

"Get those cats out of here, lock the door and get in the bedroom."

"Now?"

"Now."

Molly couldn't get those cats out of the flat any quicker.


	4. Coming Round

Inspired by this video: watch?v=IqebEymqFS8

* * *

It had been approximately three hours since Molly Hooper had seen her husband go into surgery, and when he did finally emerge from the operating room, she was by his side. The doctors gave her every detail of his operation and how it had gone. Everything had gone swimmingly, according to them, and they told her he only needed one night in the hospital before he would be going back home. Molly knew her husband however, and with him being as stubborn as he was, it would probably only be a few hours before he would be strolling out of the hospital, claiming himself to be absolutely fine.

So Molly merely sat beside his bed and gently stroked at his thumb, waiting for him to stir from his deep sleep. During that time, she received only three texts—one from John, and two from her daughter Imogen. Both inquired after both Molly and her sleeping husband.

He was sweet when he slept. Even after 20 years of marriage to possibly the most frustrating man in England, she still loved every part of him. His thick dark curls had begun to grey at the edges now, and there were a few more wrinkles around his eyes, but he was still as handsome as ever.

"Uhhhhh," Sherlock groaned as he finally stirred. Molly smiled at him, but he didn't seem to register her at first.

"Hello," she said quietly, her smile widening as she looked into his sleep-filled eyes.

"You're beautiful, you know," he said slowly and he smiled. Molly frowned. It wasn't the compliment that was strange; she had heard him things similar in the past, things that had been much more eloquent and at times, much more erotic.

"Thank you," she said and she gently caressed his soft curls. If humans could've purred, Sherlock just had.

"Sshh," she whispered. "The doctor will be in soon to do some checks."

In his anaesthesia-riddled state, Sherlock groaned. "Doctors are useless."

"Oh, really?"

"Not you. You're clever."

"Thank you, but hush now. You need rest."

"I should've married you when I had the chance…" Sherlock muttered, drifting back into sleep. Molly's laughter brought him back.

"You did marry me, you clot."

"Did I?" Sherlock said, genuine surprise in his voice, and Molly could've sworn to see her husband's eyes light up with delight.

"20 years ago now."

Sherlock emitted a low, happy chuckle. "I'm glad… The detective and the pathologist."

"More of a professor now, really."

"I prefer pathologist."

"Of course you do," Molly replied, and she kissed him lightly before resting her forehead against his.

The anaesthesia would of course wear off soon. And when it did, Molly had great fun relating their conversation to a now clear-headed Sherlock. To her surprise, Sherlock didn't groan or make excuses; he just smiled one of his little smiles and looked at her.

"The sentiment remains, my dear Molly."

Molly kissed him again and straightened his bedsheets. "I know that. Now, get some sleep."

Sherlock tried to get out some smart remark, but sleep overcame him, and all that streamed from his mouth was a string of vowels and consonants. Molly giggled as she stroked at his warm palm with her thumb.

His words floated in her mind.

_The detective and the pathologist._

She liked that.


	5. Laundry Day

Prompt provided by soyeahso on Tumblr.

* * *

With a huff, Sherlock scooped the wet clothes out of the washing machine as Molly watched, a mug of warm tea in her hands and an amused smile on her lips.

"What?" Sherlock said grumpily, but she just shrugged.

"Just never thought someone could be this cross about doing laundry."

"Mrs Hudson usually does it."

"Otherwise known as just leaving it until Mrs Hudson gets fed up of the mess and does it for you."

Sherlock merely grunted by way of reply and he sullenly stood up and made his way towards the stairs. It was just as he was getting to the top of the stairs that Molly spoke, calling his name over her shoulder.

"If you're really quick, I might just reward you."

Sherlock turned on his heel, his signature grin on his face. "Reward me?"

"Maybe."

The washing basket dropped to the floor and within just a few strides, Sherlock was right opposite Molly. With a grin, he took her mug of tea from her hands and scooped her up into his arms.

"Sherlock!" she said, laughing.

"I don't need rewards for doing chores, Miss Hooper."

Molly grinned. "I know that. Now, are you taking me into that bedroom or not?"

Sherlock chuckled and skirted past the now forgotten laundry.

They only remembered about it when they finally emerged from the bedroom to find the washing basket gone and a handwritten note that said: "This is the last time. I'm not your housekeeper! Love, Mrs Hudson."


	6. The Beach

Anonymous prompt on Tumblr of "Sherlolly at the beach."

* * *

Mycroft had insisted that the two of them come here. At first, Sherlock had dismissed the idea as stupid—but still Mycroft had insisted. It was the only place that the contact would meet them.

It was when they got to the beach that Sherlock realised why Mycroft had insisted on this being the meeting place. Surrounded by ominous cliff faces, it was bitterly cold and completely abandoned. Hardly a place for holiday makers.

Both he and Molly jumped out of the car and walked towards an old fisherman's shack, which had clearly been out of use for quite some time. Old wooden signs hung off rusty nails and as they got closer, there was the distinct smell of rotting fish. Together, they stood by the door, watching and waiting.

"I guess you won't miss this," Molly said, her teeth chattering slightly, even though she was wrapped up tightly in her own winter coat and scarf. It made sense, for someone of her petite stature to feel the cold much more than he could.

"No. I won't," he said after a moment. It had been almost three years now since the day at St. Bart's, and for almost all of that time, Molly had been there with him, as his friend, his assistant and most recently, his lover. It had been only a few weeks ago that he had owned up to that which he had been denying for so long. She, to his surprise, expected nothing to come of their union. She hadn't said it, but he knew. It was the lack of hope that gave it away. The acceptance he knew she felt whenever they were together. She had been waiting so long, so when he had finally owned up to what he had been blind to for so long, she had merely accepted it as nothing more than inevitability.

His reverie was broken by Molly nudging him slightly.

"Is that…?"

Looking in the direction where she was pointing, he immediately saw them. Two figures. One was short and thin, whilst the other was lean and carrying an umbrella by his side. Sherlock almost cracked a smile.

The figures eventually revealed themselves to be his brother and the contact, who turned out to be a bearded man, with sharp blue eyes. His features showed that he had spent much of his time at sea, and when he came closer to the shack, he smiled; much like a man coming home to his child. So this was his shack.

"Brother," Mycroft drawled. Sherlock's only reply was to nod in greeting. Mycroft's gaze fell on Molly, and he quirked his eyebrow slightly in disbelief.

"I see you haven't tired of your need for accomplices."

"Shut up Mycroft."

"This one is different however."

Sherlock just glared. This only seemed to encourage his brother however. Once again, his eyes drifted over Molly, and then Sherlock. His look of surprise lowered into a frown.

"I thought I told you before, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage."

"You did. But we're not here for me." Swiftly, he turned on his heel towards the old fisherman. "I believe you have information."

The old fisherman looked to Mycroft before speaking. It was only when Mycroft nodded that he began to speak. His accent was thick, from somewhere in rural Germany, and his English was disjointed, as if he were only beginning to learn it. Presumably under Mycroft's suggestion. Less need for translators = less witnesses.

"The man you are after…" the old fisherman said. "Moran. I know him. He was child when he came here. Often alone. Most times he talked to me. We became friends. But he left, one day, out of blue. But three years ago, he come back. Bought my gun. Gave me address. Told me to visit."

At this, the fisherman brought out a crumpled, ripped piece of paper and handed it to Sherlock. The address was a London address; presumably a flat bought by Moriarty when he was putting his plans in motion.

"It's viable," Mycroft said. "My men have been supervising it for a week now, and several descriptions matching Moran have come through. We're sure he's still there."

"Probably to try and gain revenge on me. Moran and Moriarty were lovers, were they not?"

"It's believed so."

Sherlock nodded, his mind already working.

"Moran is clearly a sentimental man—why else stay in a city which isn't in your native country if you don't hold some personal connection to it? I'd wager that he and Moriarty often met in that very flat. You say that he gave this address to you three years ago—Moran then obviously believed he would be staying there for an indeterminate amount of time. However, considering that Moriarty barely held any capacity for any sort of sentiment, it's likely that he made several promises to Moran in order to keep Moran on side. Therefore, it's easy to conclude that after Moriarty's death, Moran would stay on; illegally of course. He—" Sherlock stopped. Of course.

"He's waiting for you," Molly finally said.

Sherlock nodded. "In the weeks leading up to my confrontation with Moriarty, there were countless tabloid pieces insinuating several things about John and I's sexuality. At the time, I barely noticed them—tabloids always lie to get the most salacious story—but someone driven by sentiment, someone like Moran, would probably believe it."

"An eye for an eye," Mycroft said idly.

"Yes, well, in his eyes, I killed Moriarty—"

"So he's going to kill John in return. Sherlock, we have to get back to London."

"We do, but not for the reason you think Molly. You see, we have an advantage over Moran."

"And what's that?" Molly asked. Mycroft raised a warning eyebrow at his brother, but Sherlock waved a dismissive hand and looked to Molly. In her eyes was the hope that had been missing for so long.

"You," he answered finally.

"M-me?"

Sherlock said nothing, only nodded. He expected Molly to say something, but she too said nothing. She just tightly took hold of his hand, her eyes steeled with determination.

"We're going back to London. We'll use this advantage against him."

"Molly, you'll get hurt."

Molly shook her head, carefully reaching her hand into his curls. "You don't get it, do you?"

She didn't wait for an answer, and caught his mouth with hers.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes," she murmured, resting her forehead against his. "I will do anything to keep you and your friends safe."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "The feeling is mutual, Miss Hooper."

"Well, this is all very lovely, brother," Mycroft said after a moment, glancing at his watch. "But I do believe you have a plane to catch."


	7. Other Plans

Prompt provided by morbidmegz. The full prompt was "Sherlock decides he wants to surprise Molly by doing something nice for her birthday. Just one problem; she's too sick to leave her bed, much less the flat."

* * *

There was an expression that Mrs. Hudson often used: "not a happy bunny". An odd colloquialism, and so Sherlock often chose to ignore it.

On this occasion however, he was predisposed to use it. Ever since he woke up that morning, Molly hadn't moved from the bed; she was more focused on clutching at her stomach and groaning. A simple case of winter flu, and it would most likely be eradicated in a number of days—if not a week.

But for now, it had thrown his plans into disarray. For a good couple of weeks now, he had been thoroughly planning his surprise for her. She hadn't demanded anything too big, and Sherlock wasn't one to disobey her. Anyway, he never did too well in large crowds. He'd proven that almost a hundred times over in his lifetime.

"Sherlock…" Molly groaned, her voice travelling from the bedroom and into his laboratory (otherwise known as John's old bedroom). He looked up and skirted through the hall, knocking carefully on the door.

"Molly?"

She didn't reply, but the sound of vomiting soon followed. Sherlock glanced at his watch. It was barely 12 in the afternoon yet. He didn't bother knocking this time, and stepped inside to find Molly curled up in bed, her head lowered over a bucket.

On seeing Sherlock however, she quickly cleaned herself up and tried a smile.

"Oh. Hello. I thought you were busy with that burglary case of yours."

"I was. But that can wait," he said as he gently sat beside her on the mattress and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. Molly let out a little laugh, followed by a short yawn.

"Fair enough. Any leads?"

"A few. But as I said, they can wait."

Molly nodded and snuggled closer to him, her body warm against him.

"You were going to surprise me today, weren't you?"

Sherlock only stared at her, causing her to giggle once again before she spoke. "Ordinary folk can deduce things too, you know."

Sherlock's eyebrows quirked upwards as he smiled. "Yes, I suppose they can. But you needn't have worried—the surprise wasn't a big party. No, that's too dull. I—"

But he stopped. "No. You should guess."

Molly huffed a little and settled into his arms once more. "I'm rubbish at guessing games. I was hoping for a dinner party though."

Sherlock grinned. "Well done Miss Hooper."

He proceeded to tell her all about the little details he had planned for his surprise. She reacted accordingly, either smiling or telling him of any mistakes. Luckily, he'd got more right than wrong—it was almost a pity that she was sick, she claimed.

"Indeed a pity. But it'll only be a few days, so the dinner party can still go ahead when you're feeling well enough."

Again, there was no reply from Molly. Her cheeks, however, flushed red and she squirrelled down into the bedsheets.

"Molly?"

"Go away," was her only response. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Molly, you shouldn't sit like that. Your stomach is already in enough pain, and that is hardly a great position for optimum recovery."

"Still go away."

"I will tickle you."

Silence. Then, a small voice. "Fine."

With reluctance, she reappeared from the bed and stretched out flat on her back, giving him a look.

"Better?"

"For you, yes."

Molly shrugged. "It's funny really. Here you were, planning your surprise, when I had a surprise of my own."

"Pardon?"

"Sherlock, c'mon. You must know about a woman's biology. You certainly know about mine."

"Wrong. I know about what stimulates you, not your biology."

"I know that," Molly said irritably, her cheeks flushing a even more vibrant shade of crimson. "Anyway. Surely you know the biological basics. You know; sudden tiredness, regular sickness during morning periods…"

Of course. It was so obvious now. He carefully moved away, his hands steepling together as he gathered as much information from his mind palace that he could. They had been discussing the idea of children for a while now, but they had never come to any real conclusion. But it seemed that Molly's biological system had decided on their behalf.

Molly had unfortunately taken his sudden silence as a negative response.

"If you didn't want this kid, you could say so."

Sherlock glanced at her; he looked almost pained. "Molly, we have been together for almost five years now, and have regularly discussed the possibility of children; why should I change my mind now?"

"I don't know… People change their minds all the time."

"I am not people."

Molly couldn't help but chuckle a little at his words. Sherlock Holmes was most definitely not people. He was human though, and humans did make mistakes.

"But are you sure you want this child? I mean, I do, but I—"

"Molly, stop. Of course I want this child. You should know by now that when I make a decision, I stick to it. I do not backtrack—especially not from something like this child." Sherlock smiled at her and gently cupped his hand over her soft, warm stomach. Molly returned the sentiment, entwining her fingers with his as she dropped an affectionate kiss on his knuckles. Sherlock returned it by lightly catching her lips with his.

"Happy birthday, Molly Hooper."


	8. Meeting: Part I

Anonymous prompt on Tumblr, who asked for Sherlolly in a library.

* * *

Molly sighed, scooped back her hair into a ponytail and adjusted her glasses. To say she was stressed was an understatement. It was only a week before she started her second year at university, and her tutor had so kindly thought to only provide her with the list of her required texts about a week beforehand. So now she had to spend almost every waking moment in the student library and pour over (what seemed to be) an endless amount of textbooks.

There was only one other person who spent as much time in the library as she did. He was of a lean physique, with a mass of short dark curls and lord, his cheekbones.

Suffice to say, he made the prospect of studying a little less tedious. She never spoke to him, and he never spoke to her. He seemed to have more on his mind, but then, so did she, and so conversation wasn't high on either of their lists.

* * *

The fact that she had had to come in on a Sunday wasn't one she liked. Once again, she'd had to cancel plans with her friends and instead spend her time wandering the quiet corridors of the library, her neck craning to see the books numbers.

_Pity that guy with the cheekbones isn't around_, she thought to herself as she browsed yet another shelf with no luck. At least ogling at him could pass the time…

"Essential Clinical Anatomy?" a voice drawled from behind her. Molly whipped around, and had to suppress a squeak. It was him, and he was standing—no, looming—over her. Up close, those cheekbones looked even more impossibly gorgeous.

"Uh, reference from my tutor," she managed to say, but he merely raised an eyebrow and picked another book from the shelves and pressed it into her hands. The fact that she buckled a little from the sudden weight didn't seem to cross his mind.

"I recommend this, and I'd advise that you don't seek any more recommendations from your tutor—he's an idiot."

"Um… Thanks, I guess?"

The man smirked a little. "You're welcome, Miss…?"

"Oh, Molly. I'm Molly Hooper."

The man stuck out a hand, still with that little smirk on his face. "Sherlock Holmes."

It was with hesitation that she took his hand. Normally, she was fine around guys. But this man was so big… kind of overwhelming. It didn't help that when he looked at her, she felt like he knew everything about her.

"Well, Miss Hooper. Good afternoon."

He turned to go, but for some reason, Molly didn't want him to. It was the way he looked at her; in a weird way, it was kind of intoxicating. She had to keep him back. To her embarrassment however, it was with a mousy squeak that she called his name.

"Yes?" he asked as he turned, apparently amused.

"Well, um… If I can't take the recommendations of my tutor, who am I suppose to take them from?"

Sherlock moved closer towards her, and it was only she was backed up against the shelves that he stopped. With deft, soft fingers, he retrieved the pen tucked behind her ear, and she tried desperately to suppress the shiver that came with feeling his skin ghost over her own.

"Hold out your palm."

She did so, without question, and she couldn't help but giggle as he moved the pen over the pinky flesh of her palm.

"There," he said after a moment, and he tucked the pen back against her ear. "Contact me between 11 and 3 on weekdays. If you contact me at any other time, I will not pick up. Understand?"

Molly nodded dumbly. There was just something so hot about the way he used his voice, and the way in which he commanded her… oof. Normally, she'd be prepared to match any man who spoke to her in such a way, but when he spoke, she wanted to run her fingers through those short dark curls of his—as well as a few other things.

"Stop blushing, Miss Hooper. It's really quite unbecoming."

"Yes, sir."

Oh dear. She hadn't entirely meant to say that. If she hadn't before, she had definitely revealed much more about herself now. And it wasn't usually socially accepted to accidentally reveal your… tendencies in front of a stranger/fellow university student.

He didn't seem to mind though. Instead, he merely chuckled deeply—_oh, Lord, even his laugh was sexy_—and turned away.

She watched him leave, and sighed a little. _It's not just the cheekbones that are gorgeous_, she thought.

* * *

Although she couldn't get him out of her mind for the remainder of that week, she desperately hoped she wouldn't see him again. That would've just led into a whole nest of awkwardness and one-sided blushing.

It was to both her surprise and disappointment then that she walked into the lecture hall on the first day to find that standing at the professor's desk with a suitcase on one side and a pile of papers on the other was a lean man with short, dark curls and very, very attractive cheekbones.


	9. Meeting: Part II

just-jess12 on Tumblr requested a second part to my Sherlolly in a library fic.

Said sequel got smutty.

* * *

Molly Hooper had taken to fantasizing about her professor. Another thing to add to the endless list of things wrong with her.

Who on earth—who in their right mind even—fantasized about their professor? But then, Molly had never known of many professors with such handsome cheekbones as his, and nightly, she found herself writhing on her bed, crying his name into her pillow as she pretended that it wasn't her hands between her thighs but his own. His soft, dexterous hands.

Oh, but he would be so good.

And yet it was so _wrong_.

Which only served to make the thought of it all the more delicious.

It was amazing, really, that she managed to keep her composure around him. Weekly, she turned up to lectures and she was perfectly polite to him, asking questions when they needed to be asked and turning in work when she had to. Only the greatest genius could be able to tell the severity of the effect his voice and those damn cheekbones had on her.

Late into the fifth week, he had been carelessly stuffing his papers into his suitcase when he saw her leaving the lecture hall.

"You were rather quiet today, Miss Hooper."

Molly stopped, turning towards him. His gaze was more intense than he'd ever seen it.

This time she couldn't hide it, and her skin grew hot as a crimson flush spread over her cheeks and chest. Christ, he knows.

"Interesting," he said as he approached her, his voice now just a low murmur.

"I read the textbook that you recommended, sir," she said quickly. Maybe if she kept the conversation to minimal small talk, she might be able to get away with it and not give away just how much she wanted this man to overwhelmher.

"Good. Enjoy it?"

"Very much. It was informative."

"Informative?"

Molly nodded. "Yes. Do you… do you have any other recommendations for me?"

He quirked an eyebrow in amusement and stepped away from her. "I have a few."

"Oh! Great, I'll—" She scrabbled inside her bag for a paper and pen, but his hand on her arm stopped her.

It was her immediate reaction to obedience that seemed to intrigue him more. For a while, he said nothing.

"Miss Hooper, sit down. On the desk," he added, when she made for the chairs.

"Yes, sir."

Carefully, she placed her bags on the floor and gently sat on his desk, her legs crossed and her palms folded neatly in her lap. For a moment, he appraised her, but quickly shook his head.

Molly bit back a smile. She'd done something wrong.

"Put your palms on the desk. Uncross your legs."

"Are you sure, sir?"

"I am."

She said no more, and happily obeyed his instructions.

A knock on the door deflated her increasing excitement. Apparently, it had annoyed him too, for he strode quickly to the door and left the room. A quick of exchanges, and he was back in the room.

"Who was that?"

"Principal Lestrade," he said with a sigh as he walked back to the desk, and he only stopped when he was standing close opposite her, his thigh wedged in between her uncrossed legs. Once again, he looked at her, his eyes scanning, drinking in everything he could. her face, her body and her legs.

"You want to know how I figured it out. Don't you, Miss Hooper?"

"Yes," she said quietly, lowering her head a little. His finger on her chin caused her to lift her head again, right until she was looking into those wonderful eyes of his.

"Biology is a perfectly simple concept, Miss Hooper. You know that. The biology of attraction is even more clear-cut. Dilated pupils…" Slowly, his fingers laced themselves around her wrist. "And a severely elevated pulse. Have you been running a marathon, Miss Hooper?"

Molly shrugged, but couldn't help but let out a giggle. His eyes hardened a little as he dropped her wrist from his grip. His smile however, remained.

"Listen to me carefully, Miss Hooper. For the next five minutes, you will not move, smile or say a single word. Not even a squeak. You will only speak when I command it. However, if you become uncomfortable at any point, you mustlet me know, and I will desist immediately. Is that clear?"

Slowly, she nodded, and he cracked a smile as his fingers skipped over the skin of her thigh. The pace with which he did so was agonisingly slow, but Molly bit her lip. It would only make the eventuality that much more satisfying.

_Thank God I chose to wore a skirt_, she thought.

He teased her with the feeling of his fingers on hers, dancing from here to there across her thighs as he slowly made his way up her legs. She resisted a laugh and kept her palms tightly gripped around the edge of the desk.

He leaned in close to her ear. "Very good, Miss Hooper. Very… good."

With those words, he gently delved deep inside her, his touch light and gentle. Every part of her biology screamed at her to moan, to give out some sound of pleasure, but she still stayed silent.

Little by little, his exploration of her deepened, but no sound escaped her. Even though every part of her was on almost breaking point, she knew the satisfaction would be all the more greater for it.

A low chuckle emitted from his throat as he leaned close to her once again. He was enjoying this just as much as she was, if not more.

"Speak."

She shivered as her elation poured out of her in a series of ever more satisfying moans and sighs as she finally allowed herself to come.

Obedience had never been so much fun.

He grinned and caught her mouth, kissing her greedily as his free hand softly caressed her thick curls.

"Thank you sir," she said between kisses.

"You're welcome, Miss Hooper."

With a quiet sigh, she hopped off the desk and gathered up her bags. It was with a small smile that he watched her. It was only when she got to the door that she turned towards him.

"Until next week, sir?"

"Until next week, Miss Hooper."


	10. Getting Distracted

Another anonymous Tumblr prompt, this time with the prompt of "Whilst on a case, Sherlock sees Molly's current boyfriend with another woman."

In terms of timelines, I wrote this as taking place in-between Hounds of the Baskerville and the Reichenbach Fall.

* * *

The case he had been pursuing was around about a 7; intriguing enough to accept, but not memorable enough to earn a room inside his mind palace.

One of the leads on the case had led him and John to a small flat in the vicinity of West Ham. On seeing that it was locked with no other forms of entry (damn people and their incessant need for security), John had suggested that they visit the cafe opposite and keep an eye out. Sherlock knew that John only wanted to fill his stomach with food, but he wasn't going to complain. John was ordinary; of course he'd need to refuel at some point.

The cafe was one of those typical 'greasy spoons' that John was seemingly so fond of. The waitress serving them had unfortunately recognised them, and chattered inanely about her admiration for their work. John, thankfully, engaged her conversation with a few smiles and nods, leaving Sherlock to his work.

He scanned the street outside, feigning lazy disinterest in anything he saw. Groups of people walked past the cafe window, but none of them ever went into the flat. Sherlock sighed a little and sank lower into his seat as he continued to watch.

"Don't you think the burglar could've done a run?"

"No. The robbery hasn't been announced yet."

"He could've run anyway," John mused. Sherlock smiled and shook his head.

"No. When I looked into his kitchen, I spied his wallet and his phone still on the counter—along with a packed overnight bag. No criminal, however stupid they were, would leave their personal possessions at their home. He's probably laying low for a little while, just until…"

He stopped. A woman and man were passing the cafe, on the other side of the street. The woman was standard height, hair dyed blonde. Mouth hanging open on account of the gum she was so haphazardly chewing. The man was a little taller than her, with frizzy brown hair and a flashy smile.

John frowned. "Just until what?"

"Shut up John." Sherlock continued to watch the man and woman, certain he had seen them somewhere before.

Then it hit him. He had only seen the man for a few seconds, in the lab at St. Bart's. Molly had finished her shift, and Sherlock had offered to escort her out of the building. It had surprised him when she turned him down, and he quickly saw the reason. It was a frizzy brown haired man, with a smile too wide to be trustworthy.

Sherlock had known at first glance that this man was too superficial to be considered 'nice', but ever since his encounter with "Jim from IT", and the way in which that had hurt Molly, he hadn't said anything. Plus, he was in the middle of a case, and at that time, his mind was more focused on the effects of hydrangea macrophylla than Molly's most recent choice of companion.

He didn't know why he felt so angry. Aside from Moriarty's sick little game a little over two years ago now, Molly's love life had never been much of his business. So why did he care so much now? He shouldn't care.

John looked up from his meal, and straight at what Sherlock was now focused on.

"Wait a minute… Isn't that…?"

"Yes, John. Yes it is," Sherlock muttered bitterly. He was acting so damn human. This was John's job, to act human where he didn't. So why did he have the utmost urge to go up to the man and just punch him?

It wouldn't do. With little hesitation, he shot to his feet and barrelled out of the cafe and across the street, straight towards the man and woman. He could hear John hurriedly following on, apologising to the other patrons of the cafe. Sherlock however, continued walking as he moved straight towards the man and woman.

They stopped when they saw him.

"Oh my god!" The woman yelped. "Ain't that…? Oh my god! Gary, that's Sherlock Holmes!"

"Are you aware that your husband's cheating on you?" Sherlock asked, his voice sharp.

"Sherlock!" John said, having finally caught up to him.

"What?"

"I repeat: are you aware that your husband's cheating on you?"

"Sherlock!" John said again, and he turned to the man and woman. "I'm sorry, he's under stress…"

"I'm not. I'm merely trying to show this woman that her husband is a manipulative coward."

"In the middle of the street?"

Sherlock shrugged by way of reply, to which John only sighed and rubbed at his temples. Sherlock stepped to the side slightly—he wasn't in the mood for being punched.

"Answer my question," he said to the woman. "Are you aware that your husband is cheating on you?"

"Now, c'mon… This is ridiculous!" the man said, laughing nervously.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I highly doubt that, Gary. Your wedding ring is dirty, but the rest of your jewellery is clean. I've seen that before, and the woman in question was a serial adulterer. What do you have to say to that?"

Gary laughed again as his wife rounded on him, her eyes piecing together the puzzle for her.

"You piece of shit Gary! You promised!"

"Well, what about you?! All those "meetings", and "conferences" you're constantly going to!"

"I work in PR, you div! I need to go to meetings!"

"You barely let me leave the house! How can I cheat when I never bloody leave the house?!"

"When I'm at all those bloody meetings, apparently!"

Sherlock sighed and turned away from the now screaming couple and walked quickly down the street. John jogged after him.

"What the hell are you doing? You just ruined a marriage!"

Sherlock laughed, but continued walking. "Look properly John. Her wedding ring was just as dirty as his, but her necklace was practically shining. I'd wager that she admits to her own discretions in a matter of seconds."

"Well, joke's on you, you fat bastard!" the woman yelled, ripping the wedding ring on her finger. 'Cos I'm cheating on you too!"

With that, she threw the ring squarely at her husband's head and stormed down the street. She only stopped when she passed Sherlock.

"Guess I should say thank you. Been looking for a way to get rid of the bastard for months now. But you're still an arse."

Quickly, she hailed a taxi and jumped inside.

John's jaw had dropped a little.

"See?" Sherlock said, an amused smile on his face.

"You just ruined a marriage in broad daylight, and all you can do is smirk!"

"I didn't just ruin a marriage John; I also provided a diversion."

"What?"

"The criminal clearly wasn't going to enter the flat in clear daylight, now was he? But now, with everyone's focus being on the live version of Jeremy Kyle over there, he had the perfect chance. I'd wager that the door is now unlocked."

Sherlock walked towards the flat, and sure enough, the door was unlocked, only open by by a crack. If they were lucky, the criminal would still be inside. John shook his head.

"No. There's no way you could've worked that out. You did it because he was seeing Molly. Didn't you?"

"Don't be stupid, John."

Even after the case had been solved, Sherlock said nothing else about his "diversion". He didn't even mention it to Molly, who had come into the lab the very next day, as bright and as cheerful as ever.

As she worked, she confided to John about how Gary had rung her up in tears, admitting that he was married, but was now getting divorced and still hoped to see Molly in future. Much to John's relief, Molly had hung up and deleted Gary's number from her phone.

Sherlock had still said nothing at all about his influence over Gary's sudden bout of honesty, pretending to be involved in his experiment, but John knew his friend. And although Molly hadn't, John had noticed that when Molly had been relaying the events to him, Sherlock had given a sly smile when she admitted to deleting Gary's number.

There was only one time before this that Sherlock had so harshly deduced one of Molly's boyfriends. True, that boyfriend had turned out to be the most dangerous man they'd ever met, but at the time, Sherlock's only motivator had clearly been one thing:

No-one hurts his pathologist.


	11. Potions Class

Prompt from itsthatonetime on Tumblr, who requested a Sherlolly Potter!lock fic.

In this particular fic, all of the characters are in the sixth year.

* * *

Molly sighed as she glanced inside her Potions textbook. Mary was happily chopping ingredients beside her, already hard at work.

"Having trouble, Molls?"

"A little bit. Why does Professor Snape think we should be making this stuff?"

Mary shrugged. "I don't know. I've given up trying to work out how his mind works. Now c'mon. Your potion's barely shining."

Molly sighed and continued her work. Maybe there wasn't a reason for why Professor Snape had chosen to focus on love potions for this lesson. Maybe he was just trying to make things purposely difficult for them. He always did, especially around exam time.

All she had to do was just grit her teeth and get on with it.

"So, you're not going to do _any_ work?" John asked, keeping one eye out for Professor Snape, who was currently prowling the classroom like he always did. Sherlock stretched out in his chair and closed his eyes.

"No. It's boring."

Unfortunately for Sherlock, Professor Snape was, at that precise moment, stopping to tell off a student about her wrongful use of ingredients and just so happened to be in earshot. John quickly focused on his work, but if Sherlock had noticed Professor Snape, he didn't show any sign of caring. Instead, he continued to doze.

He only woke when Snape slapped at his curls with his notebook, and when Sherlock glared at him, he merely smirked.

"I'd advise you to actually do some work this term, Mr Holmes. No amount of money your parents provide the school with will help you pass exams," he said with a sneer, before he moved off to humiliate yet another student.

John couldn't help but snigger as Sherlock grumpily rose to his feet and began to make up the potion.

"Honestly, I could do this blindfold," he muttered, but John still continued to laugh.

"Sure. Sure you could."

Molly sighed happily as she added the last ingredient. At the back of the room, she could see that Sherlock, with the stoniest expression she'd ever seen on him, was finally starting work.

"Wow. Great work Molls!" Mary said, smiling widely. Molly returned the sentiment and began to scribble in her notebook. But Mary wasn't done yet, and as she added her last few ingredients and stirred the potion, she spoke.

"So… what do you smell?"

"What? I—I don't know…"

"Don't play fools with me! You know exactly what I'm talking about," Mary said, nudging Molly slightly.

Molly blushed as she struggled for an answer.

"What about you?" she said finally. "Surely you can smell something."

"Sure I can."

"Well, what are they?"

Mary gave a little smile and breathed in the scent of her potion. Her wide smile showed her pleasure at what she had found.

"Bread, freshly baked… pine… and aftershave," she finished, and she drew herself away from the cauldron. By her smile, Molly could easily guess that the aftershave Mary was thinking of was John's. Mary suddenly nudged her again, nodding in encouragement. With a sigh, Molly took a deep sniff of her own potion.

For a long time, she was quiet as a blend of scents wafted in front of her. It took some time for them to come together into a coherent whole, but when they did, they were so vibrant and so beautiful, it was almost like she could see them as well as smell them.

"So…?" Mary said, and Molly smiled at her, the memory of the scents still implanted in her memory.

"Well, there were poppies… and old books… and violin rosin."

"Ohh. Okay. Pretty sure there's only one guy in Ravenclaw who plays violin, but if that's what floats your boat…!"

Molly blushed slightly, but still poked Mary carefully in the sides.

"Says the girl who smells aftershave."

John took a deep sniff from his cauldron, and almost immediately, the scent of flowery perfume mixed in with the scents of dark chocolate and grass popped out at him. From beside him, he could hear Sherlock scoff.

"Oh, c'mon," John said, looking to his friend. "Everyone's doing it, look."

It was true. Now that almost everyone in the class had made their potions, they were all crowded round their own cauldrons, giggling and gossiping about which scents they had all detected. So far, Sherlock had been the only one not to do so.

"Just because everyone's doing it John, it doesn't mean I have to as well."

"It'll be fun! You just have to do it once."

"I don't have to do it all, if I really wanted."

"Look, even Molly's doing it," John said, pointing in the direction of their friends. For a long moment, Sherlock was silent as he stared at the two girls.

"Fine!" he hissed, and he leant forward, sniffing slightly. Again, he was silent, until eventually, he straightened himself up and turned his attention to his Potions textbook.

"C'mon, what'd you smell?"

Sherlock still didn't look up from his textbook. "Lemon."

John frowned. "Doesn't… doesn't Molly use lemon scented shampoo?" Mary had often complained to him about Molly's choice of shampoo, saying that it would stink out the girl's dorms whenever she used it.

When he mentioned this to Sherlock however, his friend's earlobes turned a bright pink and he lifted his Potions textbook closer to his face.

"She does, doesn't she?"

"Shut up John."


	12. Always Something

Tumblr user iamazonian requested a Jealous!Sherlock fic.

* * *

It had been a slow day at work, but only for Molly. Sherlock on the other hand, had never been busier. On the back of his return from the dead and the knowledge that Richard Brook was a lie, both the public and the police had been providing him with case after case. Molly was quite thankful for it really, for two reasons. The first was obvious: she got to spend more time with Sherlock on his experiments, and the second was that now he was so busy, he didn't have to burst into the lab at certain moments and demand a certain amount of body parts on whim.

Yes. Sherlock busy was infinitely better than Sherlock bored.

Of course, considering that today was being quite slow for her, Molly had been roped into helping him on his current experiment. It proved to be a complicated one, and as such, she completely forgot about what else she had to do for the day, her mind more focused on the work.

It was only a rapid, light knock on the door that caused her to look up. A smiling face popped their head around the door.

"Ollie!" Molly cried happily, scooting away from the work bench and towards him. Ollie was light-haired, with tanned skin and short hair. On seeing Molly, he scooped her into a bear hug and kissed her on the cheek, laughing a fully belly laugh.

"Molls! It's so great to see you! Tell me," he said as he put her down and his hand rested on her lower back, "what you've been up to?"

Molly shrugged in reply. "Just work really."

"Oh. Anything interesting?"

"Yeah, most of the time. We had a body come in a few days ago—he'd died of cancer, poor guy, but it was really intriguing to see how the liver breaks down with that kind of damage. I can show you the tests if you like—"

"Molls, please. You know I've got a sensitive stomach!"

"Oops, sorry!" Molly giggled, sitting on one of the many stools in the lab. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Sherlock was still working as hard as ever, but something about his stance was off. If Molly wasn't dreaming, she could've sworn that Sherlock Holmes was a little… envious. Of what, she couldn't really understand. So she decided to turn her attention back to her friend.

"So, what have you been up to?"

"Like you, not much. Went to see Janine yesterday."

"Oh. She okay?"

"Not by much. Tanya keeps asking after her too. It's just… urgh. So much effort."

Molly nodded. "I totally get that, trust me! But anyway. That's enough sad talk…"

Sherlock listened to Molly chatter on, and quelled the supreme urge to roll his eyes. It seemed that whilst Molly had improved greatly in certain areas over the last three years—her schoolgirl crush on him seemed to have disappeared completely now—her choice of suitors had definitely not.

It was only by a few quick glances that he managed to deduce a few things about this "Ollie" fellow. Light hair, tanned skin, buzz cut: all screamed military. Or at least ex-military. His physique was athletic, so he clearly did running. Most likely long-distance if he was involved in the military. The way he held Molly's lower back indicated an affection of some sort; their easy conversation of sensitive topics indicated that they had been friends for a while — perhaps since university? No. High school.

There was one thing for certain though: Sherlock hated him already.

"God, I'm being so depressing lately!" Ollie laughed. "C'mon, cheer us up Molls. Got anyone on the horizon?"

No. No, no, no. It would not do.

"She's not interested, you do know that?"

Ollie looked towards Sherlock, somewhat blindsided by the question. Sherlock smirked and stood up, approaching Ollie.

"She—in this case, Molly—is not interested. You can see that by the way she blushed when you asked her about her love life. Considering that you two have easily exchanged information about far more sensitive and private subjects in the last, oh, 10 minutes, it seems odd that she'd blush at such an innocuous question, don't you think? And of course, knowing Molly that is far too polite to be honest with you, she'd of course blush and I'd guess that her answer would've been "no-one"."

"Sherlock…" Molly murmured, but Sherlock wasn't done yet. In fact, he was only getting started.

"And of course, your clothing indicates that you'd be a horrible match for her anyway. Your shirt for instance: there are virtually zero creases, which therefore indicates that you are somewhat neat, perhaps even a control freak. Of course, that's why you're in the military—all neatness and routine; that's just perfect for someone like you. Now, comparing that to Molly, who has—on several occasions—complained to me about the housework she has needed to do, and you've got a very incompatible match."

Finally, he stopped, glaring at Ollie. And for a long time, there was silence. Molly was practically beetroot as Ollie blankly tried to absorb the information that had just been relayed to him.

It was a surprise then when Ollie did nothing but flashed a grin at Sherlock.

"Sorry love. I'm gay."

Sherlock nodded a little. There just always had to be something, didn't there? And of course, that was why Molly had been beetroot red. It wasn't embarrassment; she was trying not to laugh. With a light sigh, Ollie hopped off of the stool he had been sitting on and kissed Molly on the cheek and turned to Sherlock, scanning him slightly.

"It's just a pity you're not," he said, tapping Sherlock lightly on the bum and leaving the lab, throwing a goodbye to Molly over his shoulder as he went.

Sherlock had never blushed in all his life, but now, both of his cheeks were aflame. Saying nothing, Molly stood up and went back to her work. After a moment, Sherlock joined her.

The silence between them was almost painful.

"Nice… nice friend you have there," Sherlock mumbled.

"Yeah. He's getting married next week, did you know that?"

Sherlock shook his head. Molly grinned.

"It's a plus one invitation, by the way. You can come along if you want. You could even meet his fiancé."

"Right."

"His name's Jonathan."

"I'll… I'll see what I can do. Because, you know. Busy," he muttered as he looked into the microscope.

Very little was said between them for the rest of the day, but when Sherlock left for 221b that evening, he could've sworn to hear Molly's laughter coming from the supply cupboard.


	13. Order of the Day

Anon on Tumblr requested the prompt of Sherlolly and infant loss/SIDS. A prompt which broke my heart, if I'm honest.

* * *

The irony was, she had never really wanted children. They were sweet, sure, and she liked being godmother to the children of her friends, but she could never muster up the courage to want one of her own. It wasn't because having kids would hurt her career; though it was because of her work. She had seen all sorts of bodies during her time in university and at St. Bart's, but the ones that hit the hardest were always the ones that were too small to carry a wound that an adult might be able to survive.

So when that pregnancy test came up positive, she was almost frozen with shock. They had both been so careful. Yet there they were, the two blue lines that told her how much her life would change.

She prepared herself for the yelling that would come with telling him. He had confessed to her early on in their relationship that he didn't want children. He gave no reason; just told her in his blunt, cold way that he had no capacity for fatherhood.

There were tears when she told him. And there was silence. But then there was talking; so much talking. For hours, they went back and forth in their decisions until the sun came up.

It was with the coming of the morning that they arrived at their decision. It was Sherlock who had helped her. "Clear your mind," he'd said. "Delete the clutter, and give me your very first answer: do you want this child?"

She didn't say yes outright, but even now, she could remember her words. "I want to try."

Try they did. Sherlock researched every facet of pregnancy and parenthood he could. Molly went on maternity leave; switching forensics for pre-natal classes. With every month, her belly grew. To her surprise, she found it humbling, being pregnant; to know that she now had the responsibility of bringing life into the world was exciting, nerveracking and terrifying in equal parts.

Sherlock seemed to feel it too. Little by little, as their baby grew, his caseload lessened. The time he previously spent running around London would now be spent in 221b, looking after and tending to Molly. He even took over shopping duties.

The others too crowded round, all eager to help and offer their congratulations. Mrs Hudson regularly popped up to the flat to see how mother and child were doing. John and Mary visited regularly, often to see how Molly was coping with the expectant father, Sherlock. It was funny really; they had all expected him to react with the same eccentricity that he reacted to everything with, but he hadn't. If anything, he'd mellowed. Now, he spent his days playing the violin or reading. He didn't even feel the need to smoke. Knowing him, he had probably 'deleted' the urge just so he didn't run the risk of hurting both Molly and his unborn child. John even went so far to tease him, calling him "a proper family man".

The best times however, would be when they were on their own. There had been one evening when Molly was sat on the bed, propped up by a nest of pillows with a novel resting on her large, swollen belly as Sherlock worked on one of his many experiments in the kitchen. The time had ticked around to eight o'clock when the door quietly opened and Sherlock entered.

"Anything good?" she'd asked.

"Oh yes!" he replied as he changed into his pyjamas and sat down beside her. "Do you want me to tell you about them?"

Molly smiled and patted her belly. "Tell her."

He had only been too happy to comply, and he snuggled down next to Molly, his low baritone whispering all sorts of complicated maths and science. At the sound of his voice, Molly soon drifted off, but Sherlock was still relaying what he'd discovered as he gently stroked at her warm belly with his fingertips.

The birth itself was long, and arduous, but with no complications. It was a girl, small and prone to crying as all babies were, but when Molly held her, she felt like her heart might burst. This baby… this dark-haired, brown-eyed human had come from her. She had brought this bright, wonderful baby into the world.

Neither she nor Sherlock could be parted from her. After a few days in the hospital, the three of them went back to 221b and began to settle into a new routine. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, it would be Sherlock who woke her and Molly who would sleep in, and every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, it would be Sherlock who slept and Molly who woke. Sundays however, were Molly's favourite day, for it would be on Sunday that the two of them would wake and attend to their daughter before the three of them sat down to breakfast.

The odd thing was, they didn't think to come up a name for her for the first few days. They were so content to just be with their daughter that giving her a name didn't seem necessary. It was only when Mary and John visited to see her that they realised. Once again, much discussion was had, until finally, they settled on a name: Poppy Hooper-Holmes.

Once they had named her, she seemed even more real. No longer just their baby, but their child; their flesh and blood.

But the most marvellous things about her was that Molly got the chance to see Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, be a father. He wasn't perfect—sometimes he would hold her wrong, or would talk to her like she was a fully grown adult and not a baby—but overall, he was wonderful. If it was possible, he seemed to play violin even more now; it seemed to be the only way to get Poppy off to sleep. And when she did fall asleep, he'd scoop her up into his arms and give her to Molly, allowing her to rock Poppy gently and sing to her sweet lullabies. Molly had even woken up one Wednesday morning to find Sherlock in the nursery (converted from John's old bedroom), sat in the rocking chair with Poppy in his arms, gently humming.

"Beethoven?" Molly asked as she'd tiptoed into the room. Sherlock nodded, but continued to hum, softly patting Poppy's back as he did so. Molly smiled and knelt beside them, watching. After a moment, she leant her head against Sherlock's arm.

"I'm really happy we kept her."

Sherlock smiled at her and his eyes shone happily. "So am I."

Maybe God hated her. Or perhaps this was recompense for something she'd done in the past. It couldn't be fate. It couldn't. It had to be a punishment. Fate only led to good things, didn't it?

Another sob escaped her as she buried her hands in her hair, her body doubled over as she tried to stop the pain. Why did it hurt so, so much? _You never wanted this baby_, a voice sneered. _No wonder this has happened. You didn't look after it properly. You killed your baby._

"No, no, no!" she sobbed, trying to drown out the voice. But it persisted.

_It's your fault…_

_You wanted to abort her, admit it…_

_You killed your baby, you killed your baby…_

"NO!"

The door to the nursery burst open, and Sherlock ran inside. Of course the first thing he saw was their child, their Poppy, frozen in death.

He would yell. Of course he would. He would blame her. He needed to blame her. Didn't he? She, Miss Perfect Molly Hooper, was the one who'd given him hope, and now, after a total seven months of that hope, she was the one to take it away.

He was silent as he crouched down beside her and stroked her back, allowing her to cry. And even when he helped her stand and took her into the kitchen and sat her down, he was still silent. He only spoke when he rang the hospital. What he said she didn't hear. It was just a dull reverberation against her eardrums.

She registered nothing. Not the arrival of the ambulance, not the weight of his hands on her shoulders as he helped her leave the flat, not the journey to the hospital; nothing.

For a long time, they waited for news, the corridor in which they sat cold and harsh. Cheap and tacky Christmas lights flickered on and off, annoying her. By the time the doctor came to see them, the crisp winter sun was rising and Molly never wanted to drink a cup of coffee again. He drew up a chair and told them everything; it had been sudden infant death, he said. There would still need to be a post-mortem, and there would probably be an investigation. It was the post-mortem that hurt most of all. They seemed such ordinary, mundane things before, but now… she could see the process happening in front of her eyes. The cutting of the scalpel, the removal of the tiny organs, the tests… She buried her face deep into her hands. God, but she wanted to cry. So why couldn't she cry? Didn't she love her daughter enough? _Hadn't_ she loved her daughter enough?

Or did she love her daughter too much?

Gradually, she realised that Sherlock's arms had enveloped her waist, and softly, he kissed the tip of her shoulder. It was almost bizarre that someone like him, with such a calculating mind as his, should be so very warm and she so very cold. Instinctively, Molly curled up against him, burying her face in his chest as she cried.

For the first time, she registered that she was wearing his Belstaff. Then she registered something else.

"I'm in my pyjamas," she whispered. Sherlock almost laughed, but his own tears strangled it. Tenderly, he kissed the top of her head as he gently rocked her.

"I know. I know."

Everything else was silence as they sat together. The time for talking would be soon, but for now, as the morning was coming up, silence was what they needed. Comfort was the order of the day.


	14. Theories

Tumblr user becausetheyregoingtobesadlater prompted: "Sherlock is conducting an experiment into physical contact/goosebump ratios. Molly is test dummy."

* * *

Molly sighed and sunk into Sherlock's chair, her book in hand. From behind her, Toby meowed a little and flicked his tail at her in indignation. In return, Molly raised her eyebrow.

"Don't you go acting all high and mighty, mister. Got enough of that around here."

Toby merely replied with another flick of his tail, swatting at Molly's nose.

The door slammed open, and any thoughts of annoying his human disappeared from Toby's mind. Giving out a meow of surprise, he leapt from the armchair and sprinted from the flat, just as Sherlock swept inside, closing the door behind him.

"Molly!" he said brightly, removing both his coat and scarf. Molly narrowed her eyes. Sherlock never said things brightly. Not unless he wanted something.

"We agreed Sherlock: only one body part a week. I already gave you that bag of thumbs."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "No, no. Just wanted to know if you're busy at all."

Molly sighed and closed her book, looking straight at her boyfriend of two years. "Clearly not. Why?"

Sherlock merely shrugged, and slowly stepped towards her, his smile growing as he got closer. Molly continued to watch him, still unimpressed. Sherlock chuckled and crouched in front of her as he delicately moved his fingers over and up the skin of her arm.

"A man's alibi relies on it," he said finally.

Molly bit back the temptation to shiver and looked at him over her glasses, her retort ready and waiting. "A man's alibi or your libido?"

Again, he shrugged. "Perhaps the latter. You see Molly…"

He paused and flashed a grin, his hands softly tracing the supple crevices and bumps of Molly's skin. Molly still stared at him. Only she would be in love with such a man as Sherlock Holmes, the ever arrogant five year old.

"I've been conducting an experiment," he said, his smile widening as his hands gradually trailed down her stomach. Molly couldn't help but grin a little.

"What kind of experiment?"

"It involves ratios," he answered. "Ratios between the correlation of physical contact and the presence of goosebumps." Lightly, his lips pressed against her stomach, slowly tracing his way downwards, his low baritone a soft hum against her skin, causing her to shiver a little. God, that felt good.

"Certain body parts have different reactions you see."

"What—what kind of reactions?" Molly asked between tiny, mewling gasps. Sherlock laughed lowly.

"Shuddering, sometimes…"

Molly sighed deeply, her fingers curling into his hair as he kissed the lower part of her stomach.

"And if the subject is particularly effected…" he whispered, finally looking at her. He smiled again and his hands carefully hooked themselves around the waistband of her pyjama bottoms. Agonisingly slowly, he pulled them away, leaving her exposed.

"Moaning," he said softly, his lips agonisingly close to her.

"That's an—oooh!—interesting theory, Mr Holmes!" She squeaked the last word as he slowly, tenderly licked at her, his tongue pulling at her centre. Tightly, she clenched at the armchair, her nails practically scraping at the leather. He—she, they—was so close… Almost there…

He read her like a book, knowing exactly what she wanted and when. And as she tugged at his hair, he went deeper, his tongue relentless against her. She couldn't help but moan, his name floating easily from her lips.

The smile he had on his face when he drew away from her was one that was pure Sherlock Holmes: some parts sinful, some parts sexy and just that little bit arrogant. Molly sighed happily, and bent her head to kiss him.

"Seems like a positive result."

Sherlock only raised an eyebrow. "Oh, Miss Hooper. A scientist like yourself must surely know that any conclusive result must be taken from multiple experiments?"

Molly laughed heartily and after pulling her pyjamas back up to her waist, she stood and offered her hand to him.

"Just what I was about to suggest."

For the rest of the afternoon, a cat sat outside 221b Baker Street with the grumpiest of expressions.

Whatever that detective was doing to his human, he did not like it one bit.

That detective was far too noisy for a start.


	15. Surprise!

sundance201 on Tumblr requested "Molly planning a surprise for Sherlock, and actually pulling it off for once."

* * *

His latest case had led him abroad. Before, he would have been rather ambivalent about having to stay in another country, but now, knowing that he had something to come home to, that seemed to motivate him more. With the promise of being reunited with his Molly, his mind seemed to work faster, his thoughts were clearer. He had always assumed that love was a disadvantage, but somehow, she had shown him different.

Safe to say, he couldn't wait to be reunited with her.

It was late afternoon when he and John arrived back in London. Out of thanks, Mycroft had sent a car to pick them up, along with a text on Sherlock's phone:

Well done on completing the case. M.

Simple, to the point. It was probably another root canal. Sherlock didn't bother replying, but both he and John still accepted the use of the car.

John however, was supremely quiet, more focused on his phone than his surroundings. Unusual.

"I suppose it's Mary texting you."

"Uh, yeah. Yeah. Just wants me to pick up a few things on the way home."

"How domestic of you."

John didn't reply, his attention once again focused on his phone. Sherlock resolved to merely watch the scenery pass and think about the smile on Molly's face when they saw one another again.

He first noticed that something was definitely unusual when they got to 221b and John followed him out of the car and into the hallway.

"John, what are you doing? You don't live here anymore, remember?"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John hissed. His cheeks were almost crimson with embarrassment as he slowly reached into his pocket and bought out a long piece of dark velvet material.

"John?"

"Molly. She… she told me…" he tried, but his embarrassment prevented him from finishing his sentence. It was without another word that he reached up and blindfolded his friend, muttering several varying comments of both a disbelieving and derogatory nature as he did so. Sherlock forced back a laugh as he heard his friend hurry away and close the door behind him, presumably to reach the safety of his and Mary's home. Turning, Sherlock felt through the air with his fingers, trying to find any clue to what Molly had planned.

"Molly?" he called, and he was met with a distant reply of "Up the stairs! Be careful!"

Be careful. He scoffed inwardly, but smiled all the same, and slowly felt his way up the stairs and towards the flat.

On opening the door, he was met with one immediate thing: the smell of lemon scented candles. About 15? No. 20.

Hands touched at his coat. Her hands. Chuckling, he allowed her to remove his coat, and turned to say something. He was cut off however, by her lips pressing against his. God, but he'd missed her. He'd missed everything about her—especially her kisses, gentle but passionate as they were. Greedily, he deepened their kiss, but she slowly pulled away, teasing him in the most agonising way possible.

"I'm conducting an experiment."

"About what?"

"About how the other senses behave when one of them is cut off."

"Hm. It's a good experiment."

She said nothing to this, but she instead took his hand and led him through the flat towards the… kitchen. They had moved forwards and then to the left. Yes, definitely the kitchen.

Carefully, she sat him down and the sounds of food being prepared filled his ears. He took a deep sniff. There were no scented candles around—wise decision—but what he could smell was strawberries. And blackberries. And chocolate; dark chocolate.

Then footsteps; hers. And a chair scraped across the floor towards him.

"Feeling hungry?"

"Ravenous," he replied, his tone almost gleeful and with the familiar delicate touch he had been craving so much for the last three weeks, she fed him a strawberry. With a slight groan, his lips closed over the juicy red fruit and when he bit into it, his mouth was flooded with fresh coolness. He swallowed thickly. More than ever, he wanted to see her face; see that glorious smile of hers as she teased him.

But still the blindfold remained and continued to do so as she carefully fed him an array of foods; some were fruit, some were fruit dipped in chocolate. Some were hot, some were cold. She even gave him wine, a fruity rich blend that slipped down his throat as easy as air. Whatever they were though, the thought of his Molly feeding them to him with her hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders and a smile on her lips was an image that would fuel his fantasies for weeks to come.

"Please Molly," he said eventually, "I beg you… just remove this damn blindfold!"

She merely giggled and pressed a finger to his lips.

"Patience, Mr Holmes. Patience."

Her fingers looped into his, and she laughed again as she helped to his feet.

Finally, he thought with relief. He didn't know how much more of this teasing he (and his biology) could take.

He was met with the scent of lemon all over again, but unlike the first time, it wasn't so pungent. If anything, it was comforting. With a gentle push, Molly sat him down on the edge of the bed.

It was too much. He needed her. Clumsily, he reached out, his hands fumbling for her in the dark. She laughed lightly and took his wrists, guiding them to her waist. Taking a breath, he felt the cool material underneath his palms. It was silk, newly bought. Obviously the first trip out for this choice of outfit (a fact which pleased him somewhat).

His mind was pulled from its deductions when she leant forwards, threading her fingers through his curls.

"Welcome home," she murmured, her lips close to his ear and her breath warm on his cheek. Deftly, her fingers untied the knot and drew away the blindfold.

Now he realised why the blindfold was needed. Dressed in a pair of silken pyjama shorts and vest, she was stunning. Delectable. Temptation in human form.

If he hadn't had that blindfold, they wouldn't have lasted five minutes.

Resting his hands on her hips, he smiled up at her. "Congratulations Molly. You truly have surprised me. But I will say, there is one problem with this surprise of yours."

Confused, her smile dropped a little. "What?"

"You're still wearing those pyjamas."


	16. New Rule

Anon on Tumblr requested "Sherlock becomes incredibly overprotective when Molly gets pregnant."

* * *

"The victim was found on the boat, soon after the group had been to see some blue whales—"

"No."

"Sorry?"

Molly sighed and smiled apologetically at Lestrade as she rubbed her swollen pregnant belly. "Sherlock's new rule. You can't mention any large animals around me."

"Okay… why?!"

"Pregnant women tend to suffer from periodic mood swings," Sherlock said swiftly, his attention more focused on his phone as he tapped out a text. "The rule helps Molly's emotions stabilise more easily."

"_It doesn't,_" Molly mouthed behind his back.

Lestrade sighed and rubbed at his forehead.

"Okay. The group came back from seeing some large fish—"

"No."

"Big fish?"

"No."

"Uh… Mammals of an massive size?"

"Absolutely not. Molly is a mammal and as you can see, massive."

"Thanks Sherlock," Molly said drily. "You're a dear."

Sherlock beamed at her. "You're welcome."

Lestrade meanwhile, was coming to the realisation that the word "big" had an awful lot of synonyms; or at least according to Sherlock it did. After a number of tries (eleven to be exact), he threw his hands into air with frustration.

"They were seeing bloody whales Sherlock, and they came back to the hotel to find one of their group strangled!"

Silence, then… "Still no."

John sighed and finally folded away his newspaper. After sharing a quick look of "I know" with Molly, he looked to Sherlock.

"The group returned from seeing cetaceans in the Pacific Ocean, and once at the hotel, they discovered the body of a woman who was seen on the boat at the same time of the murder. Happy now?"

Sherlock's quirked a little into a smile and he looked to Lestrade and John. "Oh! Well. You could've just said."

With that, he was gone from 221b, only stopping to kiss Molly on the forehead as he went. Lestrade watched him leave with a degree of both frustration and amusement on his face.

"Is he always like that?"

John laughed, putting on his coat. "You should've seen him when Molly first revealed she was pregnant."

"You'd have thought I was made of crystal cut glass, the way he went on."

"And now?"

Molly glowered a little in reply and struggled to her feet. "Anyway. If you don't mind gentlemen, I have to pee. Oh, and make sure to mention any single large animal you can think of whilst he's working."

"Why?" Lestrade asked with his eyebrows knitted together into a frown. Molly grinned knowingly.

"No reason."


	17. Intrusion

Tumblr anon requested the following: "John and Mary find out about Sherlock and Molly at an... ahem... inopportune time."

* * *

John smiled and kissed gently at Mary's neck.

"Easy tiger," Mary said with a light laugh, but she kissed John on the lips all the same and together, they made their way up the steps of 221b, the two of them swaying a little from the alcohol they had consumed.

"Well, I don't know about you, but I thought that this was a very good evening," John said with a grin and Mary nodded in reply.

"So, you going to let us in?"

John laughed. "Of course! Sherlock said he was going out, so we'll have the flat to ourselves. Once I… find my keys that is…"

For a few moments, he searched inside his pockets before he finally extracted his keys.

It was on unlocking the door that he found that the flat was completely dark; in fact, the only light available was that streaming through the window. Carefully, John stumbled through the darkness, his hands reaching out as a (somewhat clumsy) guide. Mary followed on, her hands on his shoulders.

There were sounds, John could figure that much out. They were indistinguishable, and in his drunken state of mind, John put it down to a draft, continuing on towards the kitchen.

"John?" Mary whispered, and without thinking, he turned and his knee bumped with the sharp corner of the coffee table, causing him to stumble and…

Hands came into contact with skin. Warm, sweaty skin.

"AAARGH!" John yelled, doubling back and crashing into Mary. A loud squeak entered the fray and there was the sound of scrabbling.

For a long time afterwards, there was silence. Then a giggle.

And it hadn't come from Mary.

"What the hell…?"

"John," Sherlock's voice said quickly. "I can explain…"

Now his eyes were getting accustomed to the gloom, he could see that two silhouettes were stood opposite him: one was lithe and tall, and the other was petite.

"We need light…" Mary said with a sigh.

Sherlock practically sprinted forward. "No! No, no…"

It was too late. The lights flashed on, and both John and Mary gaped. Sherlock immediately came to a stop opposite him, and John could now see that his friend and flatmate was nude except for a cushion. Behind him stood Molly, wearing nothing but Sherlock's blue dressing gown. On the ground, there sat a bowl of melted chocolate and strawberries. Alongside that, there was a bottle of champagne and two empty glasses.

And on Sherlock's shoulders, there was smears of that same chocolate, whilst Molly's lips and fingers were covered in the bright red colour of strawberry juice.

Sherlock grew pink as both John and Mary worked out exactly what they had stumbled upon.

"Yes. Well, um. Yes. As you can see, Molly and I… we've begun a relationship."

Mary nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah."

Sherlock's back stiffened slightly and he grabbed Molly's hand, nodding quickly at both Mary and John. "Goodnight John."

With that, he dragged Molly towards his bedroom.

Only a moment passed before Mary collapsed into giggles, burying her head in John's chest. He considered telling her to stop, but soon, he found himself quickly overcome with giggles himself.

"Breakfast is going to be… awkward."

Mary nodded, wiping her eyes as she calmed from her bout of laughter. "I doubt either Molly or Sherlock will be eating strawberries for some time."

John smirked. "Well, not in our presence at least."


	18. Not the Most Romantic

Anonymous prompt on Tumblr of "birthday gift".

* * *

Of course she had to work on her birthday. And of course it would be on her birthday that the amount of work she had seemed to triple overnight.

Sherlock bursting into the lab unannounced didn't help either, and as he made himself at home, John scooted over to Molly, his smile apologetic.

"Sorry," he said quietly. "Sherlock made a breakthrough last night in the Wilson case. He insisted we come into the lab as soon as possible."

Molly tried a smile. "It's fine. I guess it's just one of those days where things keep happening, you know? It always happens when I make plans."

"Plans?"

"People often have plans on their birthday, don't they?"

John's smile fell a little. "Oh, I'm sorry. Working on your birthday. I've been there."

"Like I said, it's fine."

"Yeah. Anyway, Sherlock never remembers those kind of things. I mean, he got halfway through his own birthday last year and didn't know until I asked him!" John giggled at this, and Molly couldn't help but join in. It sounded very Sherlock for him to forget his own birthday.

The man in question snapped his head up, glaring at the two of them. "I'm trying to work."

"Sorry Sherlock," John said quickly and Sherlock grunted slightly in reply as he resumed his work. Molly sighed and continued with the paperwork in front of her. Not having anything to do, John muttered something about needing breakfast and left for the cafeteria.

For a long time, neither Molly nor Sherlock said anything, with the both of them being deeply engrossed in their respective tasks.

"It's your birthday," Sherlock said suddenly before looking at Molly. "Isn't it?"

Molly merely nodded, still focused on her paperwork. It was after a moment that she heard the scraping of a stool, scurrying footsteps and a door closing. _Probably thought of something to do with the case_, Molly thought and she quietly continued writing.

Approximately ten minutes later, she heard the door swing open again and a steaming cup of coffee was placed beside her. Finally, she looked up to find Sherlock standing beside her, a second cup of coffee in his hands.

"I took a guess at milky, no sugar. Was I right?"

Molly frowned a little, though she still picked up the coffee and sipped it. It could've done with a little more stirring, but overall, it tasted nice and provided her with a new boost of energy.

Sherlock was still looking at her. "Well, was I?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, it's fine. Just how I like it," Molly said with a smile. Sherlock returned it and sat down again.

"Good."

It took another ten minutes before Molly realised what the coffee was for: he was making up for forgetting her birthday.

She smiled wider. Sherlock was most definitely not the most romantic of people she'd ever dated, but his attempts to be were more than enough.

Quietly, she stood and moved towards him, kissing him lightly on the cheek. Sherlock's only reply was to turn his head and catch her on the mouth in a quick, loving kiss before resting his forehead against hers.

"Happy birthday, Miss Hooper."

"Thank you, Mr Holmes."


	19. The Case of the Missing Slippers

Prompted by ladysnarker on Tumblr with the prompt of "Molly has lost her slippers. London's greatest detective is on the case."

* * *

Molly Hooper had cold feet. Not the metaphorical kind of cold feet used in eons of soap dramas, but feet that she could feel turning blue from the draft that whistled through Baker Street during winter.

It didn't help that she had a great big stinking cold either.

Sherlock Holmes, meanwhile, was bored. (Luckily, the wall hadn't yet felt the brunt of his boredom.) He'd just wrapped up a high-profile case featuring some high-ranking government official in America, and so his brain was firing on all cylinders. Unhappily for both his boredom and Molly's peace of mind, the criminal world was not. For the last few days, nothing had come in.

Molly sighed and buried her feet underneath the blanket, and watched as her boyfriend paced up and down the living room, whining. Yes, the great consulting detective and actual five year old was whining.

"Nothing! I need a case! And everyone's just so peaceful, all getting on with each other and being all la-di-da-di-da lovely! It's hateful! Hateful!"

Molly groaned inwardly and coughed again. "Sherlock…"

She'd do anything for her slippers back. Two hours ago she'd asked him to find her slippers for her, and for two hours, Sherlock had been ranting and raving about the lack of cases. Molly shivered. Her feet were practically ice blocks by now.

Sherlock however, continued to pace, more focused on his own problem.

"The mind needs sustenance! I need to keep working!"

"He can find a senator's kid, but he can't find my slippers…" Molly murmured.

Blue eyes loomed up in front of her.

"What the hell?!" she yelped. Sherlock tilted his head.

"Slippers. You said something about slippers. They've been missing for a few hours now, correct?"

Even though this cold of hers had severely reduced her sense of humour for the last couple of days, Molly had to bite on the blanket to stop herself from laughing. Sherlock however, had no time for her giggles. He whipped around and with his body bent over like he was investigating a crime scene, he clambered around the furniture, searching. Whether he was teasing her, she didn't know. She merely enjoyed the sight of watching Sherlock Holmes eagerly search for her slippers.

It took him longer than she thought it would. And when he did deign to reappear beside her, he held in one hand a pair of slippers and in the other, a yowling, rather miffed Toby.

"What happened?"

"Toby had taken possession of your slippers. I found them, but Toby was reluctant to give up his newly acquired possession."

Toby gave out another loud yowl, seemingly to agree with the detective. Molly smiled and slowly moved off the sofa and towards Sherlock. Taking her slippers from him, she shoved them onto her feet and kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"Thank you Mr Holmes. Now, may I have my cat back?"

"Well… I wanted to—"

"No, Sherlock, you're not doing another experiment on him."

"He stole your slippers!"

"That's no excuse. You turned him green last time!"

If cats could've shuddered, Toby did.

"That was temporary!" Sherlock said, pouting a little.

"Temporary it might have been, but you're still not experimenting on him," Molly said as she scooped Toby into her arms.

"Fine," Sherlock said, but Molly knew an upcoming sulk when she saw one. She could hear the awful screech of the violin playing now. He always played deliberately badly when he didn't get his way.

"I'm sure a case will come up soon," she said, trying to placate him. It was no use, for Sherlock had already found his violin and was preparing his bow.

Molly sighed and sat down on the sofa as the shriek of the violin rang throughout the flat.

If there was one thing that was evident, it was that Sherlock Holmes really, really needed a case.

So when, five minutes later, there was a knock on the door and a sweaty man shouting about murder burst into the flat, Molly was secretly relieved.

So was Toby. He never suited being green.


	20. Back in the Shadows

Prompted by iamazonian on Tumblr, who gave the prompt of "Sherlock is back from the dead, and everything is back to normal. However, he hasn't gone to Molly at all since he returned, and Molly returns to the shadows, content that he is happy with John and Mrs. Hudson and Greg. She believes he didn't actually mean the "you do count" speech, especially now that his mission is over, but Sherlock is actually only being afraid of what he feels for her."

* * *

His three years were up; the three years he'd spent chasing down Moriarty's network and keeping his friends safe—they were now gone, nothing more than a memory in Molly's mind.

He hadn't lived with her during that time; but he had occasionally used her sofa when he needed somewhere to sleep. Sometimes he would even stay behind the morning after, and talk over his progress with her. Sometimes she would find him looking at her with a degree of concentration and intensity that she hadn't ever seen, not even when he was delved deep inside his thoughts on a case. It was during those times that she allowed herself to believe that he really had meant what he'd told her, that night in the lab.

He soon disproved that with his return. One by one, he reunited with John, then Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and finally, Mary (who—according to John—had given as good as she could against Sherlock, and in doing so, had secured the great detective's approval).

Molly knew that they were his friends; but her? Well, she was just the girl in the morgue, the one he smiled at only when he needed something. He didn't feel anything for her—of course he didn't. She knew that those smiles were only temporary, erased from his lips whenever she turned away from him. She knew that he only said what people—what she—wanted to hear.

Most of all, she knew that Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, was a liar.

And for a while, she'd believed every word. But now it was time for Molly Hooper to go back into the shadows.

The weeks passed by as Molly fitted back into her old life. She would still occasionally glance at her sofa in the morning, but that was habit. And anyway, it was always empty. What she was hoping for, she didn't really know.

That evening, she was in the locker room so she could change for a colleague's retirement party. It wasn't one she was looking forward to; not that she ever really looked forward to parties. She didn't have a good past record with them anyway.

With a sigh, she twisted her hair around her shoulder and fiddled with the buttons of her lab coat.

"I did mean it."

With a jump, she turned. Blue eyes stared down at her, pupils wide.

"Wh-what?"

Sherlock stepped forward.

"I am sorry, Molly. You do count."

Molly shook her head, and she couldn't help but smile a little. "No, I don't."

Sherlock tilted his head slightly, as if trying to work her out. Molly continued. "John counts. Mrs Hudson counts. Lestrade counts."

"Why do you think that?"

"Because for three years, I let you sleep on my sofa, and hid you when Moran got too close. And you've never even said 'thank you'. I mean, I'm not asking for some grand gesture here. I'm just asking for some acknowledgement."

Sherlock's lips pressed against her, and to her surprise, she found herself replying in kind, falling into his embrace. Gently, he pulled away and tipped his forehead against hers.

"That night in the lab. I meant every word, Molly Hooper. And you will always count. You counted before I knew it."

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

"Fight or flight. I have always said that love—sentiment—is a distraction, nothing more than a chemical defect. And then you came along."

He didn't have to say anything else. She knew. Everything he wanted to say was within those shining blue eyes of his. What he felt went against everything he believed. And a man like him… so logical, so fixed—of course it would be hard for him to admit to something as complicated, as undefinable and as maddening as love.

For a long time, she was silent. She had gone over and over this scenario many times in her head, but she could never have imagined the intensity with which he stared at her now, nor could she have imagined the sincerity with which he spoke his words.

It was going to take a leap of faith to let herself fall in love with Sherlock Holmes all over again.

But the greatest thing was that she was _ready_ to take that leap, and she wanted to take that leap.

So she did.


	21. Timeline

Tumblr anon prompt of "Sherlolly pregnancy timeline."

* * *

_**Trimester one:**_For a consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes isn't great at picking up on the most obvious clues. (There's always something, after all.) So when those two blue lines appear on the fifth pregnancy test, she knows. It's just a short matter of time before the great Sherlock Holmes picks up on it. So she doesn't bother telling him, not for a bit anyway.

It's a Wednesday evening when he finally figures it out. He's lying stretched out of the sofa, eyes closed as he sifts his mind palace for a case. Molly's curled up in his chair, with Toby purring lightly against her chest.

Sherlock's eyes snap open. "You're pregnant."

Molly blinks, then laughs.

"I thought you were thinking about the case!"

"Oh, that's barely a five. Easy. You on the other hand, Miss Hooper…" he says, moving towards her. His gaze is intense, but playful. Molly laughs and kisses him.

"I'm about to get a lot more difficult, Mr Holmes. So try to be good."

_**Trimester two:**_ Although having a baby is exciting, pregnancy is not. The fatigue and nausea have thankfully and finally disappeared, but her biology's not done with her yet. Practically every bit of her aches, and it doesn't help that for the last 24 weeks, Sherlock Holmes has insisted on keeping a "medical log" (his term, not hers) about every little thing that happens to her, and Molly Hooper does not go in for daily measurements and questions.

"Sherlock!" she snaps, irritated as Sherlock works the blood pressure monitor. (She doesn't know where he got it from either—probably Mycroft.)

"You're consistent. That's good," he mutters, lost in his thoughts. Molly sighs and listens to him rabbit on with his deductions as he jots numbers down in his notebook. It's sweet that he's so concerned, and she must admit that his constant vigilance over her has helped to allay some fears of hers. But right now, she wants to punch him one.

She doesn't. Instead, she grabs his shoulders and makes him look at her.

"Sherlock, please. I'm trying to sleep here. Save the measurements and questions for later."

Sherlock pouts. "I've got to keep a consistent record Molly. Any sudden increase in your blood pressure could be a sign of preeclampsia."

Molly sighs, rubbing at her temples. "I have got to keep you away from those pregnancy books."

_**Trimester three:**_ She's now the size of a whale, and waddling. Sherlock has—of course—banned any mention of penguins, elephants or any other large animal around her, and his caseload has remarkably lessened now. Now, he spends much of his time lying beside Molly in bed, softly whispering in that familiar baritone of his to her enlarged belly. But Sherlock Holmes is not like most fathers—instead of baby talk, he instead talks at length about the progression of the baby's biology. It's sweet, in a weird Sherlock Holmes type of way, and Molly loves him all the more for it.

The birth itself is long, but without complications; and after 9 hours, a healthy, 8lb 4oz baby boy is born. Together, they spend every waking moment that they can with their child. It's the first time in 9 months that Molly has ever seen Sherlock speechless.

It's fairly early in the morning when they get around to discussing names. The ward is quiet, but Sherlock is still awake and still by Molly's side. The names that get thrown around vary from the traditional to the strange.

"How about… Charlie?" Molly suggests finally. Sherlock pauses for a second, considering the name.

"It… It was my father's name," she says, and that's when Sherlock smiles and presses his lips to her forehead.

"Charlie it is then."


	22. A Successful Discovery

Sherlock paced up and down the length of the living room. No case to pursue, and no Molly. It all made for a very dull afternoon.

He could read. No. He'd read every book already.

Perhaps he could play? No. He'd played already once today.

With a sigh, he jumped into his armchair and was promptly hit on the head by something small and hard. Sherlock rubbed at his head, looking around for the object which had so rudely interrupted his boredom. He found it on the floor, behind the armchair.

It was a notebook, small and hard-backed. The spine was barely cracked, indicating only recent use. Perhaps about three months? Yes, three months. Curious, he flicked through it. Images of dresses, cakes and bouquets flashed in front of his eyes. He turned back to the first page, and found only a title ("Wedding Plan") and a date; 26th February. The very day she had accepted Sherlock's marriage proposal. Sherlock grinned and carefully read through the rest of the notebook.

It made for a very interesting read.

* * *

The last month had been… odd, to say the least. For one thing, Sherlock had been accepting less cases and had been spending more time at 221b, hidden away in his laboratory. When he did deign to venture outside its parameters, he would kiss Molly and shower her with affection that wasn't really needed.

It was perplexing, and both worrying. And after about three weeks, Molly decided to do something about it. Using bringing him a cup of coffee as an excuse, she trudged upstairs to his laboratory and knocked on the door. On the second knock, it swung open.

"Molly!"

"Sherlock. What are you doing in here?"

Sherlock shrugged, leaning against the door frame. "Nothing important. Just an experiment into the effects of antivenin against rattlesnake venom."

"I thought you did that experiment last week…?" Molly said, narrowing her eyes a little.

"Oh, well. It needed a second look. Thank you for the coffee by the way. See you later," Sherlock added, taking the coffee from Molly and kissing her on the cheek before he closed the door.

Molly frowned, staying where she was. Yes. Very… odd.

* * *

She woke up the next day to find that her partner of five years had disappeared from 221b. In his place, there was a note lying on his pillow along with a small pink rose bud. Sitting up, Molly unfolded the note and scanned it.

_Sorry for leaving you so early today. Everything will make sense soon, I promise. Sherlock._

_(P.S. There should be a car pulling up outside right about now. I'd advise you pack an overnight bag and get dressed. The driver already knows where to go.)_

Molly sighed, but let out a small smile all the same.

That was when the thought came to her. _Perhaps he found it_, a voice warned her. But why would that be a bad thing? They'd been engaged for three months now, and had been together for five years. For him to find her wedding notebook and get cold feet as a result seemed highly unlikely.

It was best to check anyway; just in case. So Molly left the bedroom and ventured into the living room.

Sure enough, her wedding notebook was there on the shelf, tidily organised amongst the other books. That was a big clue, considering it had previously been tucked onto the top of the bookshelf (ironically, to keep it away from prying eyes). Molly took it from the shelves and opened it to find not just her own scruffy scribbles, but Sherlock's looped handwriting against various items, noting down prices and delivery times and dates. Molly laughed to herself and put the notebook back.

After all, there was a car waiting for her. And she needed to pack.

Once she had dressed and packed and had entered out of 221b, the driver of the car said nothing to her, but calmly took her bag from her and opened the passenger door. Molly slid inside and appraised the environment with an approving smile. Clearly, Sherlock had enlisted his brother's help for this part. Still saying nothing, the driver got into the car and pulled away.

The drive lasted about an hour, and Molly grinned when the car turned into a driveway that was all too familiar to her. It was the house she'd grown up in, a small cottage on the very leafy, very beautiful outskirts of London. The car came to a stop just outside the house, and Molly stepped out to find her mother waiting on the doorstep. On seeing her daughter, she grinned and clapped her hands, running forward to embrace her in a tight hug.

"Hello sweetheart! How was the journey?"

"Fine enough, considering you know, London traffic and everything," Molly said as the driver got out her overnight bag and entered inside the house.

"Mum…"

"Yes dear?"

"Do you know what else Sherlock's got planned?"

"Honestly? I have no clue what's happening next. All that happened was that your brothers and sister turned up this morning holding wedding invitations—gorgeous design by the way—and a letter came through the post explaining that I needed to be waiting for you at 2 o'clock prompt. And here you are!"

Molly nodded and finally entered inside the house to find a stream of waiters and cooks milling about, each of them chatting happily as they went about their business. Molly shot a look at her mother, who merely shrugged and then laughed, clasping her daughter's shoulder.

"C'mon, let's get you upstairs!"

Once there, Molly found that she was to be getting dressed in the master bedroom, which had—for the occasion—been cleared of any clutter and instead filled with pale pink roses. A team of make-up artists and hairdressers greeted her with warm smiles, but Molly didn't pay much attention to them. Her focus was instead on the mannequin in the corner; a mannequin which displayed an ivory coloured wedding dress that was designed in the Art Deco style of the 1930s, with little lace cap sleeves and a long flowing gown.

She had to sit down. He'd actually got it—she didn't think it possible, but he'd actually got it. By some miracle, here it was: her dream wedding dress. It had been her grandmother's, back in the day, and Molly had always held out hope that she would get to use for her own wedding day, but that hope been (supposedly) dashed when her grandmother died and her possessions were put into storage. Her mother sat down beside her, smiling widely as she gently rubbed Molly's back.

"I know. Your grandmother would've wanted you to have it."

"Jesus Christ… I never thought he'd actually get it!"

"Well then. Seems you've got a keeper then, if he made that much effort to get it for you."

Molly grinned. "Yeah. I guess I do."

* * *

The day only got better after that. It seemed that everything she'd written down in that notebook had been provided for; even down to the food. Molly sat at the dressing table as her sister—who had appeared soon after Molly arrived—related the story to her.

"It was a couple of weeks back," she said as she fiddled with the flower in her hair. "I was just getting ready for work, y'know, as you do, when this envelope got shoved through the postbox. Oh, let me tell you Molls, the invitation was gorgeous. All gold lettering and ivory… urgh, you could've framed it!"

"Seems too good to be true," Molly said, amused.

"I know right? I actually had to ring to make sure that this wasn't just some horrible prank, but no, Sherlock reassured me saying the wedding was going ahead but there was just one condition: I couldn't tell you."

Molly chuckled, just as the doors opened and in tumbled her three brothers: Joe, Jake and Lionel. All of them were wearing suits, and all of them looked very dapper. A far cry from their usual fare of baggy shirts, khaki shorts and sandals with socks. Lionel was the first one to greet her, scooping her up into a huge bear hug. One of the make-up artists let out a small squeak of concern, but Molly waved a dismissive hand and smiled up at her brothers.

"Hello you lot," she beamed.

"I guess Chrissie's already told you all about how we got roped into this thing."

"This thing? I think you'll find that this is your sister's wedding day!"

Joe laughed heartily. "Relax Mum—Molls knows we're just joking. Don't you?"

"When do you ever not joke?" Molly said, to which the three boys laughed.

"Yeah well," Jake said, tapping Molly on the shoulder. "We'd best be off. Apparently, we're all your best men!"

"Brides don't have best men."

"Yeah, well, according to your Sherlock they do."

Molly sighed, but waved them away all the same, telling them not to get too drunk before the ceremony started. She then turned back to her sister and mother, smiling.

"Anyway. Anything else I should know before I make my grand entrance?"

Her mother and her sister exchanged a knowing look, and it was her sister who stood, bringing a small chain necklace from her purse.

"Yeah. Me and Mum got this for you. Soon after you and Sherlock announced your engagement," she added and she pressed the necklace into Molly's palm. She turned it over to find that a small cameo pendant was attached to the chain, and the portrait inside was that of her father. Molly smiled and looked to both her sister and mother.

"Just thought you might like it," her sister mumbled. Molly pulled her into a hug, still smiling.

"It's great. Believe me. Thank you."

* * *

Outside, the guests had already taken their places when Molly exited onto the garden. If anything, the garden was even more beautifully decorated than the inside. Molly grinned and gripped tighter onto her bouquet as she linked arms with her mother and began the slow walk down the aisle. Music began to play—to her surprise, it wasn't the Wedding March, but instead a piece by Mozart; _Violin Sonata in G_, to be precise.

Sherlock, ever the traditionalist, was facing the priest. Beside him was John, who gave a quick glance behind him. He grinned at Molly and gave her a mock salute before turning back around. On the other side, there were her brothers. Lionel and Jake were facing straight ahead, but Joe was shifting his weight from foot to foot. It was obvious why; he had always been so protective over Molly, especially after the death of their father. Today was bound to make him nervous.

Molly meanwhile, literally had to pinch herself to make sure she wasn't dreaming. It was all so perfect, and so carefully organised, it seemed like what was in her mind had bled out into reality.

Eventually, she and her mother came to a stop. Her mother smiled at her, nodded and stepped back. Taking a breath, Molly turned and looked to her fiancée.

That was how she knew it wasn't a dream. The Sherlock in her dream didn't appear so pleased with himself. That look however was quickly wiped from his face when he saw her. Instead, his eyes lit up happily and his grin widened to such an extent, it could've rivalled the Cheshire Cat's.

"You cheeky bugger," she murmured, leaning close to him and giving him a peck on the cheek. Sherlock chuckled slightly.

"I presume then, Miss Hooper, that you're ready to be married?"

Again, Molly smiled and she gently entwined her fingers with his.

"Just say the word, Mr Holmes."


	23. Those Three Little Words

_**Prompt from truelondonsoul on Tumblr of "Sherlock confesses Molly at Scotland Yard but he doesn't realize that everyone is there." **_

_**I don't think I need to point out that this will contain 3 tablespoons of fluff, 4 ounces of fluff and just a pinch of extra fluff for good measure.**_

* * *

This was ridiculous. Utterly, and completely ridiculous, Sherlock thought as he jumped inside a cab and fired off a text to Molly.

_Where are you? SH_

_Xmas party. Scotland Yard MH xxx_

She was using abbreviations. He guessed that she'd drunk at least two—three—glasses of champagne (of course it would be champagne; they were hardly original at Scotland Yard). With a sigh, he directed an order at the cab driver and sank back into the leather seat, hands steepled under his chin.

Contrary to what John, Mary, Lestrade—and even Mrs Hudson—had said over the last month or so, it wasn't that he didn't love her. Of course he did. He wouldn't have involved himself in a romantic relationship with her if he wasn't certain that his feelings for her were something that he would feel within 10 years or so. It wasn't like his time with The Woman; that had been the very definition of lust—a quick roll in the hay, if you will. Molly was different, and in a way, so much more captivating than The Woman had been. Her beauty wasn't obvious—it was something that came out in droplets until it had slowly formed into something so clear and so bright, it was almost annoying that he hadn't noticed it beforehand.

That was the trouble; those three words just didn't sum it up enough. It didn't convey what he truly wanted to say.

And because of that, he was apparently a horrible boyfriend. _Sentiment_. He could never get the hang of sentiment.

The cab pulled up a few yards away from the entrance. Sherlock threw money at the driver and jumped out, running towards the doors and bursting open. The bleary-eyed guard on duty at the desk lazily waved him through, more focused on singing Christmas tunes in a low, off-key hum. Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued through to the main meeting hall.

There, he saw that lurid Christmas decorations were hanging off the walls and a brightly lit tree was stuffed into the corner, fake presents stuffed underneath it. Peppy, cheerful music that gave him a headache was playing.

But all of that was irrelevant, in Sherlock's mind. His eyes scanned the room, mind focused on his task: find Molly.

Within just a moment, he found her. She was halfway through her third glass of cheap champagne, and her hair was half up, half down. She hadn't dressed up for the occasion, only choosing to wear a Christmas jumper and jeans. Clearly she had only intended to stop by for a moment, but knowing her luck, she'd probably got stuck listening to colleagues moan about their workload—that sort of thing was inevitable at these kind of things. Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock stormed towards her and spun her around. Molly's eyes widened on seeing him, and she let out a laugh.

"Sherlock, what—"

"Despite what the world and his mother thinks, and even though—much like Valentine's Day—it's just a meaningless social construct that doesn't really encapsulate how much I do actually want, desire and need you in my life, I suppose I should say it: I love you." He took a breath. "There. Happy now?"

Molly said nothing, but a crimson red blush grew over her cheeks as she looked down, desperately trying not to laugh. Sherlock was about to ask what was happening, but his mind—and his eyes—showed him the source of her amusement. Like a scene from a bad romantic comedy, the screamingly cheery music had stopped just as he had started speaking, and everyone—Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, Dimmock, Stamford, even John and Mary—had their eyes glued to Sherlock and Molly.

The silence was a deeply uncomfortable one as Sherlock struggled to maintain his cool composure. John however, merely burst into quiet giggles along with Mary. A glare from Sherlock failed to stop him.

It was Donovan who broke the silence, scoffing a little as she took a sip of her own champagne. "Finally," was all she said.

With that, everyone went back to their own conversations, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all. Sherlock however, was still growing a beetroot red. Stepping away from the colleague she had been talking to, Molly smiled affectionately at Sherlock and looped her fingers through her hair, drawing him close.

"Meaningless social construct it may be, but the, uh, sentiment is returned, Sherlock. Tenfold." She didn't even give him time to answer before she claimed his mouth with hers. Between kisses, Sherlock grinned and wrapped his arms around her waist. When he'd first met Molly, he'd never imagined that he'd eventually be where he was now, with his arms around her waist as they exchanged soft kisses, but he decided that he liked it very much.

"And they called it puppy love…" came blaring out of the speakers. As Molly laughed, Sherlock glared over at the DJ booth to see two small blonde figures quickly scurrying away, both of them giggling to themselves.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He had been wondering where to put that spare head. Now, he had the perfect place.

* * *

The next morning in 221b, the scream that came from Mary's lips was one that would've woken the whole street.

Molly instantly sat up, concerned for her friend. Sherlock however, laughed and cuddled at her waist, gently pulling her back down to his side.

"It's nothing. Just a dismembered head to scare Mary," he murmured sleepily, stroking her bare arm. Molly gave him a withering look.

"You can't put dismembered heads in the fridge just because people annoy you."

"If they play 'Puppy Love', I can."

Molly sighed and snuggled against him. She couldn't help but giggle as Mary shot off all manner of curses and swear words against Sherlock's name. _A genius Sherlock may be_, Molly mused, _but he's still basically eight._

At least it made for interesting mornings.


	24. Meet the Parents

_**One word prompt from icequeenforlife on Tumblr of "garden".**_

* * *

The visit was nothing more than a social civility, in Sherlock's mind. His mother knew this, and greeted Molly with the same warm civility that she greeted every house guest with. His stepfather on the other hand, did not seem to have received this message, and instead greeted Molly with coldness, looking at her as if she were nothing but a pebble in his shoe. Sherlock stepped closer to Molly and put his arm around the lower part of her back, all the while glaring at his stepfather.

It was Sherlock's mother who attempted to defuse the situation with a light, breezy laugh.

"Well, the cook informs me that dinner should be ready in a few minutes, so I suppose we'd best make our way in now." She quickly walked back into the house. Sherlock directed a final glare his stepfather's way before both he and Molly followed his mother into the house.

The rest of the evening ticked by in the way Sherlock had expected it to. Molly tripped over her words as she told his mother what she did at St. Bart's and how she helped with his experiments or even sometimes his cases, all whilst trying not to cower under the disapproving glare of Sherlock's stepfather, who—ever since entering the dining room—had taken to drinking copious amounts of whisky. Pretty soon, both stepfather and stepson were embroiled in a competition made solely up of who could give the best murderous glare. It only came to an end when Molly kicked him slightly in the shin in a way that said, '_if you don't talk soon, I'll kill you_'. So Sherlock broke into a smile and conversed easily with his mother, telling her all about his latest cases (he made sure to leave out the boring ones).

"I suppose it was soon after that you decided this trollop would be a good companion for you," his stepfather slurred loudly, now practically moulded to the chair. _Don't punch him_, Sherlock told himself. _Under any circumstances, do not punch him._

There was a scraping of chairs. "He didn't actually," Molly said clearly. Sherlock glanced at her. She was now on her feet and looking straight at his stepfather, whose eyes widened at this display of confidence from the woman he had insulted so openly.

Molly continued. "It was actually quite soon after his 'death'. Sherlock had nowhere to go, so he lived with me for a while. One thing led to another and—"

"And you ended up in his bed, and the rest—as they so rightly say—is history," his stepfather said, and he mockingly raised his glass. For a long moment, Molly said nothing but only held her head higher. She looked to Sherlock's mother.

"Thank you Violet, for such a lovely dinner. Excuse me."

With that, she left. Not even a minute went by before Violet turned to her husband, eyes blazing.

"What the hell was that about?!"

"Your son is knocking about with a common pathologist! I thought you had some pride in your family name!"

Sherlock sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. Out of everything that could go wrong, it had to be this.

* * *

Eventually, he could take no more. Leaving his parents to their now fever-pitch yelling, he departed the room and jogged outside. He found her sitting in the middle of the sculpture gardens, sitting on one of the many wooden benches with her shawl—a cherry red silk pashmina she had bought especially for the occasion—wrapped around her shoulders. With a heavy sigh, he joined her. She gave him a brief glance before she looked back up at the night sky.

"That went well," she said finally. Sherlock nodded, but couldn't help but chuckle. Soon, she was joining him.

After a time though, they calmed and Molly stretched out on the bench, laying her head in his lap as she looked up at him.

"Did he really loathe me?"

"Molly, my stepfather hates anything and anyone that isn't him, or at least directly connected to him."

"So what about you? You're his wife's son, after all."

"He tolerates me."

"Oh. I bet he and Mycroft _loathe_ each other."

"Mm," Sherlock said quietly, his fingers deftly playing the tendrils of Molly's hair. "I think he and Mycroft have come to an agreement to be civil to one another when around Mother. Aside from that, Mycroft's about as hated as I am."

Silence fell on them again as Molly considered Sherlock's words.

"Do you care?"

"About what?"

"The fact that I'm… common. Does that embarrass you?"

"Molly, would I be sitting here if it did?"

She giggled lightly and shook her head. "No, I didn't think you would…! But that's enough miserable talk. Let's talk about something else. What constellations can you see?"

Sherlock frowned. A strange topic to introduce so suddenly, but if it took her mind off that horrible dinner experience, then he was perfectly happy to indulge her. Still lazily playing with her hair, he gazed up at the sky.

"Well… there's Orion, but that's an obvious one. Everyone can spot that. Over there—it's a bit difficult because of the trees—there's Ursa Major; otherwise known as the Great Bear. I think that one over there, just to the right of Ursa Major is Leo Minor, but I'm not too sure…"

He continued to point out every constellation that he could see and it was with a wide, entranced grin that Molly listened, her gaze following to wherever he pointed as she greedily absorbed everything he was telling her. He supposed that was why he loved her like he did. There were always people who claimed to have a thirst for knowledge, but none of those people had ever shown any real need for knowledge—and that was something Molly showed in abundance. She was just_curious_. Anything new that came across her path, she would try it out at least once. And if it didn't work out? Well, that was fine, because she could always go back to the one thing she had always loved: science. And now this abundantly curious and inquisitive mind was lying in his lap, laughing and smiling as she learnt about the night sky.

She was wonderful.


	25. Helping a Friend

_**Request on Tumblr from anonymous: "Molly's ex has taken something of value to her and Sherlock goes to retrieve it."**_

* * *

It was late in the afternoon, and Sherlock was irritated. He had been working since early this morning, and still nothing of note had come up. John had buggered off soon after lunch, citing Mary as an excuse. Sherlock of course knew that John was merely trying to protect his friend from the knowledge that he was in fact extremely bored. He made no mention of this however and had let John go. After all, he had Molly and she would—if he were to be brutally honest—be quite a bit more helpful than a bored and frustrated John.

He glanced at the computer monitor again; and still no matches. Sherlock gave out a shout of annoyance, just as the door to the lab swung violently open. Molly scuttled inside, head bowed and her shoulders shaking as she cried. About a millisecond after, a burly man in his late 20's stormed inside.

"You going to give me that necklace or not?" the man spat, all of his vitriol aimed squarely at Molly. She shook her head, timid; mouse-like. The man stepped towards her, almost overwhelming her with his bulky frame.

"For two years, I put with all your weird shit! And all I'm asking for is a stupid bloody necklace!"

Sherlock spun on his stool, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched the scene before him.

"It's not stupid…" she muttered, but the man's contemptuous scoff quietened her.

"Ah, shut up Molls. I should have that necklace, and you bloody well know it. Hand it over," he said fiercely, sticking his hand out. When she didn't hand it over, he snatched from her hand—the fact that Molly flinched didn't register.

Instantly, Sherlock was on his feet and had begun to move towards the burly man, his mind picking up every little detail about him. Recently shaved but wearing new clothes; clean-shaven for new girlfriend — steeped frame; former boxer — out of the game for 4 (no, 3) years. Still prepared for a fight. Dog tags swinging from his neck — fake, of course, the names written hastily in Biro. Swirly handwriting, so written by new girlfriend. Birthday gift — obligated to wear them.

Overall, the man was a true, salt-of-the-earth git.

So Sherlock punched him, square on the nose. The man buckled and stumbled back out of the lab, squealing in pain and spewing meaningless empty threats. Molly gaped, horrified. With a grin, Sherlock scooped the dropped necklace from the floor and carefully placed it back into Molly's open palm.

"There."

For a few moments, Molly said nothing, her brain still trying to register what had happened. Eventually, she spoke. "Th-thank you. But you really didn't have to do that—"

"Believe me, I wasn't intending to. But with men like that, the phrase 'action speaks louder than words' rings incredibly true."

"Couldn't you have just done your deduction thing…?"

"Mm. I briefly considered it, but—as I mentioned—anything I would've had to say wouldn't have made it past the granite that seems to make up his skull."

At this, Molly giggled. "Yeah, well. Thanks for… helping, I guess. This was actually my mother's. But you probably knew that."

"Well, I had an inkling…"

"You had no idea, did you?"

Sherlock gave her a look, but all she did was return his look with a slight raise of the eyebrow. He shrugged.

"Perhaps. However, I thought it was a duty to protect the interests of the person you liked. Isn't it?"

Molly nodded. "Uh, yeah. Yeah it is. Thanks again."

Carefully, she fixed the necklace to herself and smiled at him. Not for the first time, he noticed just how lovely her smile really was.

"Oh, and Molly, I was wondering if you'd—"

It was no use. She was already gone. Sherlock sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets and moving back to his work. _Next time_, he thought to himself. _Next time._


	26. TW Scars

_**TW: Self Harm/History of Self Harm. Tumblr prompt from cumberbatchsavedme: "Sherlock discovers that Molly used to self harm when he catches a glimpse of her old scars. He asks her why and she talks about how she never felt confident with herself, and was always willing to change to fit in."**_

* * *

There were many reasons why Sherlock Holmes loved Molly Hooper, and one of those was how she worked. It didn't matter how late he needed to stay in the lab, she would still be there beside him, helping him with anything he needed. She didn't demand any reward for such endeavors—after all, as she claimed, his work interested her. Sherlock wasn't a very affectionate person, as the two of them knew, but when she said such things as that, he couldn't help but do the very human thing of smothering her with kisses and affection.

In fact, it was a wonder they got any work done on those occasions.

* * *

It was another late night at St. Bart's for both of them; Sherlock was working on an experiment for his latest case, whilst Molly was stuck with admin. They sat together as they worked, occasionally exchanging glances or snatches of conversation, but mostly they sat in companionable silence.

That was until Molly leaned over the desk to fetch a pen, and he saw them. He wondered how he hadn't seen them before—thin white lines trailing in scatters down her left arm. Molly paled a little and hurriedly tugged at her sleeve.

"It's nothing; childhood—confidence, you know… Oh God…"

Gently, he took her hands in his, looking straight at her. "Molly, stop."

Saying nothing, Molly stared at him.

"I understand," he said finally. "After all, in the past, I have abused my body too—in a different way, I grant, but believe me. I understand."

"I know," Molly said quietly, bowing her head a little. Sherlock tipped gently at her chin, looking straight at her wonderful deep brown eyes.

"You're wonderful, Miss Hooper. Not just because you cope with me, but because of the way you look at the world, with all its complexity and morbidity." He smiled a little. "Almost Victorian, in a way."

Molly bit on her lip a little as she smiled. "Thank you. Do you… do you want some coffee?"

Sherlock's smile widened into a grin as he stood up.

"Of course. Milky, no sugar?" he asked as he walked to the door. Molly nodded.

"Milky, no sugar."


	27. Happy Accident

_**Tumblr prompt from truelondonsoul: "Sherlock accidentally makes a potion or something and turns into a cat and meets Toby. Molly doesn't know what happened." I decided to go Potter!lock.**_

* * *

It both amused and irritated him to admit that he frankly had no clue what had just happened. He had been in his dorm, alone and sitting in the middle of the room with a cauldron stationed in front of him and frankly, everything had been going swimmingly.

Well, right up until he added the wolfsbane, that is. Now, he was lying on the floor with a neon blue mist floating above him. And somehow, he felt lighter. That too, was strange. Just exactly what had happened to him?

Carefully, he stood. Even his feet felt lighter; softer. He looked around for a moment. However strange his body felt, it seemed that his senses had benefited from the accident most of all. Everything he felt, heard, saw and even smelt was sharper; crisper.

Idly, he called for John. But when a sharp mewling sound emitted from his throat, he jumped back—and straight into the eyeline of Anderson's mirror.

A low, drawn out meow poured from his throat as he groaned and curled up inside himself. He, Sherlock Holmes—the genius of Ravenclaw House—had somehow turned himself into a cat.

A very handsome cat, with smooth black fur and sharp blue eyes, but still a cat all the same.

_Molly_, he thought. _She'll be able to help. _It was with that thought that Sherlock got to his feet—paws—and padded out of the boy's dorms and slipped across the corridor towards the girl's dormitory.

* * *

When he got there, he found it to be empty, which was annoying. He assumed that Molly would be cooped up on her bed like she always was on her days off, with her nose stuck in one of the many textbooks she kept beside her bed. He huffed, but that was stopped by a sudden yawn/yowl. How could he be tired already? It was barely noon, for Christ's sake! Or was accidentally turning into a cat really this physically draining?

It was no matter. He stared up at Molly's bed for a long time, calculating the jump. When he was satisfied, he rested back on his hind legs—whilst desperately trying not to think about the fact that he now had hind legs—and jumped.

It turned out cats were a lot stronger than he thought, and he sailed through the air, coming to a collision with a soft, bouncy pillow. He meowed in surprise and rolled away, hitting something else that was soft; but not nearly as bouncy.

"You're better than tuna…" a voice said sleepily. Curious, Sherlock raised his cat head and looked to see that _Toby_, Molly's furball of an animal, was what had broken his fall. So apparently his transformation into a cat had enabled him to understand cats. Wonderful.

Toby however, had barely noticed Sherlock's weight on him and had continued sleeping. Grumpily, Sherlock butted his head against Toby's back. Immediately, Toby jerked awake and rolled over to glare at the intruder.

"Who are you?" he said shortly, curling his paws closer to him. Sherlock looked down, uneager to engage in conversation. This day was already weirder; he wasn't going to let it get even more so. Claws retracted, Toby swiped at Sherlock's ear.

"I said, who are you? What are you doing on my human's bed?"

"Your human?!" Sherlock cried, indignant. "She's Molly Hooper, not just your human!"

Toby's eyes narrowed. It was almost as if he were _frowning_. "You're weird."

"I'm not weird! I'm Sherlock Holmes, and I—" He stopped, curling back against himself as Toby aimed an inquisitive look at him.

"What happened to you?"

"Accident. With some wolfsbane."

"Oh," was Toby's only reply as he closed his eyes to resume his sleep. Sherlock repressed his own urge to sleep and headbutted Toby again.

"Do you know when Molly will be back? I need her help."

"Yes, I do. And no, I won't tell you," Toby said lazily, flicking his tail slightly.

"Why not?" Sherlock said, indignant.

"Because you like her. And I'm a cat. Cats don't like sharing."

"What does me liking her have to do with anything? You're a cat."

"And cats don't like sharing. I have my human; get your own."

"But I like your human! Very much!" Sherlock retorted, almost whining.

_What this conversation must sound like to human ears. Probably like a series of yowls,_ he mused.

Toby stared, unblinking, at Sherlock for an awful long time.

"Ask her out then, if you like her so much."

Sherlock tried a frown and sat up, his front legs—paws—perched nicely in front of his hind legs (nope, still weird). "You just said…"

Toby yawned and stretched out on the bed. "I don't like sharing my human with people who lie to her. So don't hurt her, or I'll purposely scratch your bed-sheets to shreds every week."

"Um. Okay." Of all the days in Sherlock's life, this was by far and away the strangest.

It was the door opening that caused him to look up. To his relief, he found that it was Molly, and as per usual, she had her nose buried in the pages of a thick hardback textbook. Forgetting himself, Sherlock called her name but once again, all that came out was a short (but loud) mewling sound. Molly promptly dropped her book to the floor and on seeing him, she grinned and sat on the bed. Sherlock nuzzled up close to her, and when she gently scratched and stroked the top of his head, he found that he quite liked it. He made a swift mental note to try and get her to do that when he was back being human.

"Aw. Aren't you a sweetie? I wonder where you came from, hey?" she said as she scooped him into his arms and held him close. She was very warm for a girl of her size. Sherlock snuggled closer and before he knew what was happening, a deep throaty _purr_ was floating out of him.

Molly's fingers froze on his chin as she stared at him.

_Uh oh._

Not even a moment went past before Molly let out a large laugh.

"Oh my God! Sherlock!" she spluttered, still unable to contain her laughter. Sherlock tried to glare, but apparently, that only led to another, harder, bout of laughter.

"C'mon, don't look at me like that," she said between giggles. "_I_ didn't transform you into a cat, now did I?"

Sherlock slowly shook his head. Molly sighed lightly and held him close to her once again before standing up. "We'd best get you to Madam Pomfrey—she'll no doubt be able to help you."

Again, Sherlock shook his head. He would already be in enough trouble for even having potion making ingredients in the dorm, let alone concocting a potion which turned him into a cat. Molly sighed again, heavier this time.

"So what do we do? Wait for the potion to wear off?"

Sherlock gave out a small meow of agreement.

"But that could take hours!"

His eyes widened in reply.

"Fine," Molly said after a pause. "We'll go back to your dorm. But if I'm caught by Professor Flitwick, I will tell on you!"

Sherlock said nothing, which Molly rightfully took to mean agreement. Together, they ventured across the corridor and into the boy's dorm which was thankfully still empty. Locking the door behind her, Molly carefully sat down on Sherlock's bed and with him in her arms, they both waited for the potion to release Sherlock of its effects.

It took a little under an hour for him to come back to his normal form. And it was for little under an hour that Sherlock Holmes purred happily in Molly's arms.


End file.
